


221A || BBC Sherlock

by petxr_parkxr



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Original Character(s), mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25864066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petxr_parkxr/pseuds/petxr_parkxr
Summary: "I met you in the dark, you lit me up. You made me feel as though I was enough."Sophia Ann Addair, the youngest of four in the Addair family.She’s finished her studies in university and now she’s ready to take on the world. But she doesn’t want to jump straight into a job, she wants to live her life. So, she finds a quiet spot to live; Baker Street. She gets on with the landlady, Martha Hudson and thinks it’ll be the perfect place to start. But things change when she meets her neighbors: the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and retired army doctor turned blogger, John Watson. She doesn’t expect to ever come in contact with the two men, but one day, everything changes.On Sophia’s walk upstairs to her flat, she hears Sherlock playing his violin. That’s the beginning of the end for Sophia and Sherlock. It doesn’t take long before Sophia is accompanying Sherlock at every turn. The two seem like an unlikely duo to everyone around them, but they surprisingly work well together. Sophia understands Sherlock’s quirks and knows how to communicate with him. And although Sherlock doesn’t outwardly express his gratitude towards Sophia, he knows that she knows too.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68
Collections: Sherlock





	1. The Addair’s

The Addair family was large and boisterous on their own even before the four daughters were born. The mother, Margery Caraway, was a lovely woman with long golden hair and eyes that shined like emeralds. She was the talk of the town to everyone, the most beautiful woman in the small village she resided in. There would always be a man waiting at her doorstep when she came home from work ready to profess their love to her. But there wasn’t a single man that was worth Margery’s time, for she wasn’t one to settle. But then she met Joseph Addair, a new neighbor in the village. Every morning, he would have his coffee on his patio, newspaper in hand as he sat outside. From the moment Margery met Joseph, she knew it was love at first sight. Every Wednesday, he would send flowers to her door before she went to work. 

Their weekends were spent in Margery’s backyard, sitting amongst the dandelions and wildflowers. Margery would weave little crowns from the flowers, placing them delicately on Joseph’s head. And Joseph would admire Margery, watch as the light would hit her eyes and twinkle like new diamonds. Or the way her hair fell and framed her face. He was sure that this woman, this glorious and _beautiful_ woman was going to be his for the rest of his life. So, only after nine months of being in love, he got down on one knee and proposed. Of course, Margery said yes over and over again as she peppered kisses on his face. 

The wedding took place in the spring, when the flowers were in full bloom. It wasn’t a grand event, only family and some friends attended the service. Margery wore a lovely gown, a train lined and embroidered with wild flowers like the ones she would weave into crowns. They could barely make it through the vows before they crashed into a kiss that held more words than any promise. The night was filled with dancing and laughing, tears of joy from family and congratulations from friends. It was then that they had their first daughter, Jo Louise Addair. 

From the beginning of her life, she was a kind and quiet child. Much like her mother, she was a beautiful girl. Her hair rippled like a golden river, curly and wild all at once. And her eyes were like sea glass, shifting to different shades of green in the light. When Jo was only three years old, the next daughter was born. Her name was Lucy, most commonly known as Lu. She was more reserved much like her father. Her hair was a deep shade of brown, almost like deep hot chocolate. She spent her time alone playing with her toys or painting pictures. After Lucy came Ainsly, the most beautiful and colorful baby the Addair’s had. She wasn’t blonde nor brunette, she was the perfect mixture of both with the most beautiful brown eyes. 

And the last child the Addair family had was Sophia Ann. Her hair was pin-straight and deep brown with hints of blonde highlights. Her eyes seemed to change colors depending on her mood, almost like some sort of mythical creature. From the minute she came into the world, Margery and Joseph knew that she was something special. At every turn, she was writing something, even if it only made sense to her. She would beg her sisters into playing out her outlandish scripts, directing them like she was meant to. There wasn’t a moment Sophia wasn’t creating a new world or new language. 

The four sisters were happy with their lives and happy with one another. They loved each other deeply, no matter what came between them. They followed Jo’s roll whenever they were playing, practically fighting to be at her side. And they loved to listen to Lucy read them stories in the afternoon under the tree in the backyard. Ainsly was always painting pictures of her sisters when she had the chance, practically more than two dozen drawings hung around her room. And Sophia often read her stories to her sisters in the evenings after dinner, their parents listening in the dining room with fond smiles. They were a happy family, always laughing and smiling and definitely odd. But they didn’t want it any other way.


	2. Scotland to England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophia is finally ready to leave Scotland and start her life in England, right in the heart of London.

“You don’t have to go,” Ainsly said as she sat on the bed, playing with her fingers, “you could stay here with me and mum and dad.”  
“I’ve outgrown Scotland, Ainsly,” Sophia said back as she packed her things into a suitcase, “there’s a whole world out there waiting for me.” 

Ainsly watched as her sister grabbed her bundles of notebooks, stuffing them into a suitcase pushed against the wall. There were still papers pinned to the wall, all different ideas from novels that might never be published. Within these walls, stories of all kinds were created; languages that only Sophia understood were born right before her. And deep down, Ainsly knew that her sister had outgrown Scotland, that the world outside always seemed more appealing to her. Her sisters were sure she’d end up in the states, selling her stories every hour and to whomever would take them. Sophia continued to pack her things into the suitcases, almost like she was running out of time. 

“Where are you even staying? I thought flats in London were expensive.”  
“Baker Street,” Sophia answered, looking to her sister, “right in the heart of London. Rent isn’t expensive, and it’s close to the bookstore that I applied to.”  
“Book store,” Ainsly found herself smiling, “that’s almost _too_ perfect for you.”

The corner of Sophia’s lips quirked upward into a smirk as she continued to pack her things. Deep down, she was slightly sad about leaving the family home. All of her dreams had manifested within these walls, and now she was moving on. But she knew London would give her everything she had been hoping for, she knew it like the sky was blue and the Earth was round. 

“Sophia! Dad’s got the car all ready!” Jo called down from the bottom of the staircase.  
“Coming!”

She zipped up the last of her suitcases with a sigh before swinging bags over her shoulder. Ainsly carried two other suitcases behind her, following behind her sister towards the family car. Downstairs, Jo and her husband Louis, whispered to one another with their hands perfectly twined together. Lucy was helping Joseph pack the last of Sophia’s things into the car, her summer dress swaying in the wind. 

“Is that everything?” Joseph asked, raising his eyebrow.  
“Yep,” Sophia closed the trunk, “that’s everything.”

Jo, Lucy, Louis and Margery joined Sophia outside, trying their hardest to hide their tears. Sophia couldn’t help but allow her eyes to water as she wrapped her arms around Margery, squeezing the woman tightly. 

“I can’t believe my baby is going all the way to London,” Margery laughed tearfully, “I thought we’d have more time together.”  
“You’re making it sound like I’m dying,” Sophia whispered, squeezing her mother a little tighter, “I’m just moving. I’ll call you all the time and send you a bunch of letters.”  
“I know you will,” Margery parted from her daughter, holding her shoulders with the sort of strength only a mother possessed, “I’m so proud of you, Sophia.”

She kissed Sophia’s forehead before wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. Sophia looked to her sisters, eyes becoming damp by the second. She took to Jo’s arms almost immediately, burying her nose in the shoulder she had cried in so many times growing up. Jo held her little sister tight, much like she did when they were growing up; after every scraped knee, broken heart, Jo was there. 

“You’re going to do wonderful things in London,” Jo whispered into her sister’s hair, “absolutely wonderful things.”  
“I’m glad you’re so sure.” Sophia allowed a giggle to slip out.  
“Of course I am,” she pulled away, brushing the stray strands of hair out of Sophia’s face, “I’m the oldest.”

Sophia smiled and eyed Louis, giving him that warm smile she reserved for him and him alone.

“You take care of her now,” Sophia mock-threatened, “or you’ll have me to deal with, are we clear?”  
“Crystal,” Louis chuckled as he hugged Sophia softly, “give ‘em hell out there, Sophia.”  
“C’mon Soph,” Joseph said, tapping Sophia on the shoulder, “we have to get going or you’ll miss your flight.”

Everything was happening so fast, and the only thing Sophia could do was let go. She took her sisters hands one last time, staring into the eyes they had shared all their lives.

“I love you,” she said with so much emotion, it made everything feel more real, “take care of each other.”

The sisters nodded in a silent vow before letting go of each other’s hands. Sophia slid into the passenger side of the car, pressing her face against the window to say goodbye to her family. But it wasn’t just her family she was saying goodbye to, it was every memory she had made in that small house at the end of the lane. With one last glance, she settled into the seat and rested her temple against the glass. 

* * *

Scotland smelled of springtime; of dandelions and tulips, freshly cut grass and rain. London smelled of smaug, pastries in the oven and storms. But there was something charming about London that drew Sophia right back to it. The cab stopped outside of Baker Street, wishing the young woman ‘good luck’ before driving off. Sophia stood in place, taking in everything she could about the quaint, little area she had arrived at. People seemed to clamber along, some walking pets and others children. It was a perfect harmony in the most imperfect way.

With a pounding heart, Sophia stepped forward and onto the little porch of Baker Street. She took the golden knocker in her hands and hit it twice against the deep wood, waiting for someone to answer. Without missing a beat, the door swung open revealing an older woman who Sophia knew as Mrs. Martha Hudson, the landlady. She was a short woman, hair the color of cigarette ashes and eyes that seemed to hold a million stories. She had a smile a grandmother would wear; one that seemed to spit venom if crossed. Sophia knew from the minute she met the woman that she would do nicely inside the complex. It was the sort of place she could write her stories without losing any sort of creativity. 

“Just on time,” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she made room for Sophia to enter, “I just took the kettle off. My, look at all that luggage,” she eyed the suitcases on the side of the road, “let me get one of the boys to help you.”

Before Sophia could even argue, Mrs. Hudson scurried off. Sophia began to move her suitcases closer in an attempt to start when she heard Mrs. Hudson speaking to someone, another man’s voice blending with the woman’s.

“I’ll prepare the tea, dear. You just worry about getting settled.”

Mrs. Hudson disappeared behind a door, leaving Sophia and the man alone together. He was slightly taller than herself, sandy blonde hair neatly combed to the side and pale eyes glooming. He was dressed casually, dark wash trousers and sweater. If she didn’t know any better, he would seem like a librarian or something. 

“You must be the new tenant,” the man said after a few moments of silence, “John Watson,” he outstretched his hand, “I live right below you.”  
“Sophia Addair,” she shook his hand, taking note of how rough they felt, “pleasure to meet you. Sorry for troubling you, I didn’t think she’d _actually_ fetch someone.”  
“It’s no trouble,” John dismissed, “I wasn’t doing much of anything. Allow me,” he took two of the suitcases, “a friendly gesture for the new neighbor.”

Sophia smiled kindly as she followed the man, lugging her bags up the flights of stairs. 

“So, where did you stumble in from?”  
“Scotland,” Sophia answered, “Shieldaig to be exact.”  
“And what brings you to London then?” John questioned, “School?”  
“Not necessarily,” Sophia answered, “I just finished uni four months ago. My dream is to become an author, and I figured a change of scenery would do me some good with my writing.”

John hummed in response as he climbed up the last flight. Tiredly, the two dropped the bags inside the flat, each catching their breath with kind smiles. 

“Thanks again,” Sophia stood straight, looking around her new flat, “it was very kind of you.”  
“You’re quite welcome,” John replied as he smoothed down his trousers, “if you need anything, feel free to ask.”  
“I’ll be sure to, thanks.”

And like that, John took his leave and trotted down the stairs. Sophia sat down on the coffee table, looking around the flat. It was everything Sophia had envisioned when she dreamed of moving to London. It wasn’t a small flat, nor was it big, it was the perfect size for someone like her. Her smile seemed to mirror everything she had felt, and she stretched her arms, shuffling towards her boxes in the corner of the room. London would do her some good, she was sure of it.


	3. The Violin Downstairs

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sophia set her cup down in her saucer, looking up at the older woman, “can I ask you something?”  
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson nodded, placing her dishes back in the sink, “what’s on your mind?”  
“That man you had help me with my suitcases,” she took a deep breath, “John Watson. He doesn’t live alone, does he?”  
“No,” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, “he lives with Sherlock.”  
“Who’s Sherlock? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

Mrs. Hudson’s lips turned upward in a smile that was a mixture of fondness and contentment. She placed her hand towel down on the counter and sat across from Sophia, her smile never faltering.

“He’s a detective,” Mrs. Hudson began to explain, “people come to him all the time to solve their problems. Although, he’s quite the unusual man, but he’s a good man at that. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon.”

There was something in the way Mrs. Hudson spoke that made Sophia believe her. She sipped her tea while she sat inside of the landlady’s flat, thinking of the man Mrs. Hudson seemed to speak so highly about.

* * *

 _A detective_ , Sophia thought to herself as she paced back and forth inside her flat, _why would a detective be living in some cheap flat in London? And why would John be working with one?_

Sophia opened her laptop as she stood in the middle of the den, quickly opening up her web browser. She typed ‘Sherlock Holmes’ into the search bar, eyes widening at the amount of results that popped up. But only two results caught her eye; a website titled ‘The Science of Deduction’ and another titled ‘The Personal Blog of John Watson’. She clicked on the first link, met with a very dark looking website. She sat down on her couch, eyes scanning each word like it was some sort of gospel. However this man was, he was absolutely _brilliant_. His way with words was almost inhumane, like he wasn’t from this earth. 

After about an hour or so of reading, she then clicked on John’s blog, opening one of the most recent entries. She read each passage intently, practically sitting on the edge of her seat with each story. There was _no way_ that these two people could be living beneath her, it wasn’t something that happened in life. But it was all linking together, each story and blog post weaved in and out of one another without a skip. She closed her laptop and leaned back against her couch, staring out the window for what seemed like ages. She was going to find out who this Sherlock Holmes character was if it was the last thing she’d ever do.

* * *

By the time Sophia had gotten off the bus three streets down from Baker Street, the sidewalks and streets were practically flooded. Thunder boomed in the distance, indicating that a heavier storm would be coming soon enough. The bus pulled to a stop, and Sophia quickly prepared herself for the run she was going to have to do. The minute she stepped off the bus, her shoulders were already drenched and her hair was beginning to stick to her forehead. Tightly clutching her bag to her side, she began to rush down the streets towards Baker Street. 

By the time she made it to Baker Street, her dress was practically dripping and her hair was tangled and drenched. She pushed the front door open, slamming it shut with a loud sigh. Sophia placed her hands on her knees as she doubled over, watching as the rain dripped from the tips of her hair. She could still hear the rain pounding outside, drowning those who were unlucky enough to get caught in the storm like she did. As she stood up, though, she heard music coming from upstairs. She paused, trying to listen to each note that rang through the complex. She recognized it as the violin, only because her mother had played for a short time when Sophia was a baby. The notes were beautiful, perfectly timed and played with such detail it almost made her cry.

With hesitant steps, she began to climb up the stairs to investigate. The music drew nearer and clearer, a beautiful melody spilling out from the instrument. By the time she made it to the top of the stairs, she noticed the cracked open door of 221B. It was open enough just to see the den of the flat, which is when Sophia paused. By the window, almost like a shadow, stood a man. But it wasn’t John, no, this man was thinner and taller. She could only make out the silhouette; long curly locks, broad shoulders, long legs, things like that. Tucked underneath his chin was a violin, his arm moving with such delicate nature it almost seemed like a juxtaposition. Sophia found herself staring, completely enthralled and entranced by the music, her eyes beginning to water from the sheer beauty. When the music stopped and the man dropped his shoulders, Sophia let out a breath she had no idea she was holding.

“Violin enthusiast?” came the man, his voice deep and thick.

Sophia didn’t know what to say or how to answer. The man placed his violin down on it’s stand before turning to look directly at Sophia. She took in every feature. His pale skin and cheekbones that looked sharp and defined. His eyes, they weren’t just one color but multiple, although sharing traits of green and blue. He was much taller than she was, as if he would be able to loom over her in an instant.

“You play beautifully.”  
“It’s only beautiful if it’s right.” the man answered quickly.  
“My mum used to say that,” Sophia laughed breathlessly, hugging her arms around her body, “when I was growing up, she used to play. But she always said that if it wasn’t played right, it wasn’t worth playing.”

The man narrowed his eyes, scanning Sophia almost as if he was reading. Sophia didn’t want to look away from him though, he was so beautiful and yet so mysterious, it completely enveloped her. Suddenly, she remembered everything she had read the night prior, from John’s blogs to the ‘Science of Deduction’ website she had read. She looked at the man with a keener eye, only for them to widen in realization.

“ _You’re_ Sherlock Holmes,” she said, more to herself than to him, “you’re the one John writes about. _You_ wrote ‘The Science of Deduction’.”  
“You’ve clearly done your research.”  
“Mrs. Hudson told me about you yesterday,” Sophia corrected, tilting her head, “she said you were a detective.”  
“ _Consulting_ detective,” Sherlock replied pointedly, “she always leaves out the important details.”

Sophia watched this man as he spoke, trying to keep up with every word that he said. He was so quick, so ready to speak before Sophia could even finish a thought. There were so many things she wanted to know, wanted to _ask_ the man that was practically bleeding out intelligence. But there was nothing, she couldn’t form the right words and even if she did, she didn’t know how to speak them aloud.

“I’m Sophia,” she finally said after three moments of long silence, “Sophia Addair, I live right upstairs. I met John a few weeks ago.”  
“Obviously,” Sherlock said, “John mentioned a new neighbor, but I was too busy working. I didn’t really listen.”  
“Working on a case? People _really_ come to you to solve their problems?”  
“That seems to be in the job description, yes,” he watched as her lips pressed themselves into a tight line, “is that a problem?”  
“No,” Sophia shook her head, pursing her lips, “it just sounds like something out of a novel, is all.”  
“And you know all about novels, don’t you? In fact, you’re working on one right now but you haven’t made a dent in your chapters and you’re starting to doubt you’ll ever be able to write something worth reading again.”

Sophia froze. He couldn’t have gotten any of that just by looking at her, there was no explanation for it.

“How did you know all that?”  
“Same way I know you work in a bookshop and that you come from a very tight knit family in Scotland who are all very inclined in the arts.”  
“But _how_?”

There was a glimpse of amusement in Sherlock’s eyes that Sophia caught for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he placed his hands behind his back, turning on his heel to step back towards the window.

“If you’d like to find out, come back this evening for tea and I will show you then.”

Everything about the man was cryptic, like he never wanted someone to know where he was leading them. But Sophia couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, practically begging to know more. She didn’t need to say a word for him to know that she would, in fact, be coming back this evening. She quickly took her leave, rushing out of the flat and up the stairs. When she closed the door, she pressed her back against the wood, trying to catch her breath. There was something about Sherlock that Sophia didn’t quite understand, even though she desperately _wanted_ to understand. With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself back up and shuffled towards her bathroom, grabbing a towel from her closet. 


	4. No One Like You

Eight o’clock was when John Watson stumbled into the flat after his shifts at work. He would place his coat on his chair, making his way into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. But he found the kettle boiling, steam flowing from the tip of the spout. He raised his eyebrow, turning back towards his flatmate who sat perfectly still in his chair.

“Sherlock? Are we expecting company?”   
“I expect so.” 

John’s eyebrow never lowered, it was almost stuck in that position. He simply turned back towards the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard to find his drink. He poured the amber liquid into the glass and sauntered back into the den. The duo sat in silence, listening to the sounds of London. Upstairs, Sophia paced back and forth, much like she had done the night prior. But this time, she was pondering the idea of leaving her flat to go meet with the consulting detective. Hesitantly, she opened the door to her flat and made her way downstairs. She stopped on the last step, taking a deep breath before stepping towards 221B. She knocked on the door twice, both men looking up to see who it was.

“Sophia, hello,” John stood up, placing his glass down on the side table, “what brings you in?”  
“Sherlock invited me,” she answered softly, “unless, this is a bad time?”  
“Not at all,” John shook his head as he stepped to the side, “please, come in.”

Sophia kindly smiled as she stepped inside the flat. This time, she took a moment to really look around 221B. It was a charming flat; nothing too small nor fancy. The wall was painted green with panels of intricate wallpaper plastered on. Two large windows looked out on Baker Street, curtains pinned back for the lights from the street to bleed inside. Two bookcases were pushed against the wall, covered in novels and knick knacks. A desk sat in the middle, pushed between the two windows; also covered in books and other objects. Against the wall towards the door, a leather sofa was placed, a coffee table right in front. 

On the wall above the sofa, papers and pictures were tacked. Two chairs sat perpendicular from each other in front of a fireplace, a warm fire dancing in the hearth. Sophia stepped closer to the wall, narrowing her eyes as she tried to get a better look.

“Found anything interesting?” Sherlock asked from behind her, holding two cups of steaming tea.  
“I was just admiring,” she answered as she turned around, taking the mug of tea from his hands, “thank you. Is this one of your cases?”  
“One of them,” Sherlock straightened his back, “only took a few hours to crack. Practically child’s play,” he wore a calm grin, “please, have a seat.” he gestured towards the coffee table. 

Sophia slowly moved towards the coffee table and sat down, making sure that she didn’t sit on anything of importance. John sat down in his chair, glancing between Sherlock and Sophia. 

“How did you know about my family? Or about the bookshop?”  
“The way you dress,” Sherlock replied rather simply, “no discernible uniform; rather comfortable clothes for easy movement. Your posture right now suggests that you’re used to leaning backwards in between customers, and there are ink stains still on your thumbs. Which means you’re working around some sort of print.”  
“And what about my family?”  
“Well the accent is a give away,” Sherlock said pointedly, “you’re from Northern Scotland, going off the dialect. Now the arts, that’s a bit harder but not difficult to miss. Your bag that you carry around, there’s dried paint flakes all over it. And you mentioned how your mother used to play the violin when you were a child. You work in a bookshop so it’s not too difficult a guess to assume that most of your family are involved in the arts. That, and the picture that is in your phone case.”

Sophia hadn’t even sipped her tea, she was so enthralled by everything Sherlock had said. She placed her cup down on the coaster on the coffee table, crossing her leg over the other.

"How did you know about my book?"   
"The indents on your arm," Sherlock pointed, narrowing his eyes, "indicates you've been sitting at a desk to work. And your nails, you keep them short so that you can work on your laptop. Some would think 'journalist' but judging by your general demeanor and personality, novels are more likely. Now the doubt," he tilted his head as he clasped his hands together, "the bags under your eyes. You've been staying up late and there's bite marks around your thumbs. Chewing is a cause of anxiety, it's not hard to connect the two." 

Her eyes stayed focused on Sherlock, staring at the man that easily spilled her life story like it was news he heard in the morning. She swallowed hard, trying to bite down on the smile that wanted to peek through.

“Did I miss anything?”   
“N-No,” Sophia stuttered, placing both of her hands on her thighs, “y-you were right. You were completely and utterly right,” she exhaled breathlessly, “that was incredible.”

John furrowed his eyebrows, staring between Sophia and Sherlock. He had grown accustomed to people cursing Sherlock into oblivion after one of his deductions, ready to throw a punch. He was always ready to catch said person from beating Sherlock into a pulp, of course, letting them get at least _one_ punch in for good measure. But this was the first time when someone was almost impressed by his words. He noticed the glimmer of complete astonishment in her eyes, like Sherlock was this bigger-than-God figure. Sherlock even looked shocked, although John knew Sherlock was an expert at hiding his true emotions. Sherlock shifted in his seat, almost surprised by Sophia’s sudden interest.

“And you can see all of that from just _looking_ at me,” she was grinning, shaking her head as she spoke, “that’s incredible. I read your website last night,” her eyes grew wide, “I didn’t think you could _actually_ do something like that. _You’re_ incredible.”

“Well,” Sherlock sipped his tea, “that’s not what people normally say.”  
“And what do people normally say?”  
“‘Piss off’ is one of the more common ones, wouldn’t you say, John?”

John hummed as he continued to sip at his drink. Sophia blinked rapidly, staring at Sherlock with such focus it was almost concerning. There were so many questions that Sophia wanted to ask, so many things she wanted to know about the detective. But there was nothing, nothing that seemed appropriate to ask when they barely knew each other. Sherlock watched Sophia as she swayed, watching as she thought to herself. She stood up again, turning to look at the wall above the sofa.

“Alright, detective,” Sophia knitted her hands behind her back, “what was this case about?”   
“Murder-suicide,” Sherlock placed his cup in the saucer and stood up, unbuttoning his blazer, “Leonard House, forty-six. Lived in Bristol for seventeen years before enlisting into the military at the end of the year. Eight years later, he meets Susanne Himmler, forty-four. She's a nurse, and works in a small walk-in clinic. After two years of letters and dates, the two get married. They have three children in the span of eight years: two daughters and a son. The House family starts a business, but it goes under. Leonard starts to drink and becomes an alcoholic while Susanne goes out every night to one of her secret lovers. One night, Susanne doesn't come home and Leonard is in a fit of rage, starts screaming at the youngest son," Sherlock pointed to each of the pictures, "Evan House is the only one home."   
"So he gets the butt end of his father's screaming?"   
"Precisely," Sherlock nodded, making Sophia smile, "at some point in the middle of the night, Leonard is found dead. Police obviously think it's the wife and her lover. But they fail to look at Evan House, the son who was systematically abused by his father during his drunk raids. Very cut and dry, no idea why the police sat on it for a week." 

John watched the two from his chair, eager to see how exactly Sophia was going to react to each statement. To his surprise and almost _disbelief_ , Sophia looked rather invested in Sherlock's word, her gaze never leaving him. It was something neither man was used to, and it almost irritated the hell out of Sherlock as to why she cared so much. Sophia didn't understand it entirely either, but Sherlock just seemed so _fascinating_ that she wanted nothing more than to spend her time in 221B, listening to all the stories and cases Sherlock had. Sherlock looked down at the girl to his left, furrowing his eyebrow. 

"What exactly brought you to London, Sophia?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  
"I wanted to start my career here," Sophia answered with a smile, "and maybe have some adventure along the way."  
"Well," Sherlock didn't notice, but he smiled something that felt nice, "you've certainly come to the right place if you're seeking adventure."   
"That's what I was hoping for." 

* * *

Sophia retired to her flat at half past nine, leaving John and Sherlock alone in 221B. John sat in his chair again, swirling his drink in his glass as he eyed his flatmate. Sherlock took his usual position on his chair, sitting like a statue; fingers steeped in front of his lips just above his chin. He was thinking intently, John knew that much. He also had his suspicion as to _what_ Sherlock was thinking about, but he wasn’t stupid enough to voice his theory. But he sighed, leaning back against the warm chair.

“So,” he pondered his words for a moment, “what are you thinking?”  
“About what?” Sherlock asked boredly.  
“About Sophia,” John specified, “what do you think about her?”  
“What would you like me to say, John? She is our neighbor, nothing more.”  
“You rather enjoyed showing off to her, I saw it. You think she’s interesting, something and someone new.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word, he simply went back to thinking, leaving John in the silence. His lip turned upward for a moment before bringing his drink to his lips.

“I’m not an idiot, you know.”  
“I would never tell you otherwise, John.”

Upstairs, Sophia couldn’t stop herself from grinning, nor could she stop her heart from racing. She sat down on the edge of her bed, wrapping her head around everything that had transpired inside that flat. Sherlock had walked her through about two different cases, each one just as daring and interesting as the last. Tiredly, she fell against her blankets and stared at the ceiling. Maybe, just maybe, moving to London would do her some fantastic good.


	5. Sophia's First Case

“ _A detective, that’s how the landlady had described his occupation. But this man; this clever and witty man looked as though he should’ve been a politician. He couldn’t possibly be real, he was everything that seemed fake. If he were to exist, what would’ve been the odds that he would live just beneath Rory?_ ”

On the staircase leading downstairs, Sophia sat with her laptop. She was leaning against the wall, legs dangling over the steps as she hovered over her keyboard. With a heavy sigh, she let the back of her head hit the wall, staring at the blinking bar on her screen.

“Working on something interesting?”

She turned her head to the left, meeting the crystal eyes of Sherlock. Today they were more of a green tint, sharing murky gray tones. He stood before her in his usual attire; black slacks, white button down and black blazer. His curls were still somewhat tamed and sitting against his forehead. 

“I had an idea for a book the other night,” Sophia answered as she crossed her arms over her torso, “wanted to see where it took me. Why? Do you need something?”  
“John won’t be home from work until seven tonight and Mrs. Hudson isn’t very fond of crime scenes,” Sherlock sighed as if it was an irritating statement, “and I’ve grown accustomed to having a partner around when I investigate.”  
“ _Investigate_ ? What could you possibly need me for?”  
“Well I can’t just go to a crime scene empty handed, now can I? Will you be joining me or not?”

Sophia contemplated her options for a moment, staring at the consulting detective who tentatively stood in front of her.

“Y-Yes,” Sophia nodded rapidly, closing her laptop as she stood, “let me get my coat.”  
“Do be fast then.”

* * *

“Are you sure I can just come to a police crime scene with you? Isn’t that, I dunno,” she looked to the detective sat opposite her fiddling with her fingers, “against the rules?”  
“Rules,” Sherlock scoffed, “who cares about rules? Just here, please,” Sherlock pulled his coat closer to his body as he swung the taxi door open, “follow me.”

Sophia did as told, trying to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. Police cars surrounded the street, officers standing in small clusters as they spoke in whispers. Sophia couldn’t help but feel under dressed compared to everyone around her; only adorning a brown skirt with a green and white button down tucked inside. She picked up her pace to join Sherlock’s side, shoving her hands inside her pockets.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asked, eyes directed towards a man.  
“Inside,” the man replied before eyeing Sophia, “who’s this? Where’s John?”  
“She’s with me,” Sherlock gestured to Sophia for a moment, “Sophia, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Now, show me the body.”

Lestrade glanced at Sophia one last time before turning to lead the duo into the building. It was a small home, built of brick and stone with shrubbery growing all over. A few officers stood inside, sharing disgusted glances when their eyes landed on Sherlock. 

“Names Shelby Unity,” Lestrade began to explain as they stepped into the living room, “her children and husband found her here an hour ago. Shot in the right temple, no exit wound,” Lestrade stopped in front of the body, “Anderson thinks it a suicide.”  
“Anderson is an idiot,” Sherlock almost hissed, “it’s never a suicide.”

Sophia stared at the body lying limply on the couch, feeling a pit grow inside her stomach. It was a woman, no older than early forties. Her hair was disheveled and sticking to her head. Her eyes, probably a bright greenish blue color at some point, were now milky and lifeless. Blood had dried around the wound, crusting and turning into a dark red color. Men in scrubs examined the body, whispering to one another about the cause of death. Sherlock moved towards the body, sliding on a pair of latex gloves. Lestrade moved back towards the other policemen, allowing Sophia to move towards Sherlock. 

"Sherlock," she kept her voice low, "what exactly am I doing here?"  
"You're helping me," Sherlock answered as he continued to stare at the body, "Mrs. Unity didn't commit suicide, especially at this angle."  
"What angle?" Sophia questioned, moving closer.  
"If she _were_ going to commit suicide, the wound wouldn't be at this angle. It would be lower on the temple," Sherlock replied, demonstrating on his own head, "however Miss. Unity died, it wasn't because she was suicidal."

Sophia looked around the small living room, staring at all the pictures that lined the walls and fireplace. They were a happy family from the looks of it. Christmas morning's. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Smiles painted the Unity family; portraying their lives as anything more than perfect. Sherlock watched as she looked around the living room, as if he was making sure there was nothing around that could hurt her. 

"Look at that," a woman's voice broke through the living room, "freak's back on the case. And you've brought someone new. What, did John finally take my advice?"

Sophia swiveled on her heel, eyes narrowing at the woman who entered the room. She was a dark-skinned woman, wild curls sitting upon her head. She adorned a pencil skirt and white blouse tucked inside and a blazer. She wore a pair of heels, giving her at least another inch or two on her height. Sophia noticed the way the woman scowled at Sherlock, and her eyes only continued to stare at the woman.

"Donovan," Sherlock's voice turned into mock kindness, "lovely to see you. Are you enjoying your affair with Anderson?"  
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," the woman stuttered, her cheeks beginning to burn in embarrassment, "who's this? Did he threaten you or something?"  
"No, he didn't," Sophia answered, her back straightening, "I'm Sophia, his neighbor."  
"Oh, another live-in assistant. You're certainly branching out."  
"I'm not his _assistant_ ," Sophia hissed, "I'm just his neighbor."

Donovan almost snorted, but she managed to hide it, but just barely. Sophia looked past Donovan, noticing one of the daughters of Shelby Unity milling outside the front door. She broke away from the scene, her eyebrow raised in concern. The girl almost immediately noticed Sophia approaching her because she turned her back, shaking her head.

"Please, I don't want to talk to anymore police."  
"I'm not with the police," Sophia gave a kind smile, her hand reaching out to touch the girl's shoulder, "I'm Sophia, what's your name?"  
"Ingrid." the girl answered.  
"Okay, Ingrid. I just want to talk for a bit, can we do that?"

Ingrid slowly turned, red and puffy eyes meeting Sophia's. Sophia gently guided Ingrid to a bench a few yards away from the house, away from the police. Ingrid sniffled softly, arms hugging her body in an attempt to comfort herself. Sophia hesitated on her words for a few minutes, trying to think of a good way to start.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your mum," Sophia said gently, "it's dreadful."  
"They think she killed herself, don't they?"  
"That seems to be what the police think," Sophia nodded, her hand still resting on Ingrid's shoulder, "what do _you_ think happened?"  
"I," she paused, wiping her cheeks again, "I don't know. I mean, mum's been a bit down the last few weeks but we thought it was nothing."  
"Has there been anything happening at home? Any fighting?"  
"Yea," Ingrid nodded, looking back at Sophia, "mum and dad have been fighting a lot. I tried to stop listening, but it became so constant that I couldn't help it. Mum thought," Ingrid took a deep and shaky breath, "mum thought that dad was cheating on her. She said she had found some sort of texts, but dad denied it. D'you think," her eyes pooled over, large beads rolling down her cheeks, "d'you think my dad killed mum?"

Sophia didn't know if she could really answer that question. She wasn't a detective, nor was she a professional of any kind. She was nothing more than an author, she wasn't _qualified_ to answer Ingrid. 

"Ingrid, I know this is hard, but I need to know how long your parents were fighting for. It might be able to help us."  
"It's been on and off for almost two years, but lately, it's been almost every other night. I just want to know who did this."  
"And we will," Sophia squeezed Ingrid's hand, "my friend, he's a detective. If anyone is going to solve this, it's him."

Almost on que, Sherlock exited the home, eyes darting around in an attempt to find Sophia. He finally spotted her, his shoulders relaxing as he walked over to her.

"Everything's going to be okay," Sophia stood, "watch out for your brother. Keep yourselves safe, okay?"

Ingrid nodded once, watching as Sophia joined Sherlock's side yet again.

"Find anything useful in the house?"  
"Nothing's been taken," Sherlock answered, eyes staring straight ahead, "so we can also rule out burglary. What about you? Who was that?"  
"Ingrid Unity. Shelby Unity's daughter," Sophia explained as they exited the scene, "she said her parents were fighting for the past two years. Apparently, Shelby accused her husband of some sort of affair. Do you think that could be connected?"  
"Possibly," Sherlock replied, almost pleased with Sophia, "do you have any ideas?"  
"None. But then again, I'm not the detective here."

The corner of Sherlock's lips turned upwards as he stretched out his arm, hailing a taxi. Sophia couldn't help but laugh to herself as she climbed in behind Sherlock, sitting opposite yet again. 

"Is Donovan always like that?" Sophia questioned, looking back at the man across from her.  
"Sorry?"  
"She implied that you must of threatened me since I was accompanying you," Sophia clarified, "and she called you 'freak'. Why did she do that?"  
"Because she is morally against anything or anyone that is different and likes to make it known to the world. You needn't worry about her," Sherlock waved his hand, "she's boring anyways."

She didn't know if it was right or not, but Sophia simply smiled. Sherlock, although he wouldn't admit it, grinned as well as London passed them by. 


	6. Give Yourself Credit

"Why would someone want to _kill_ Mrs. Unity?" Sophia questioned from the desk, tapping her pencil against the wood.  
"You said that Mrs. Unity's daughter heard her parents fighting constantly about an affair," Sherlock replied, flipping through his notes, "that gives us a motive."  
"But we don't even _know_ if there _was_ an affair."  
"Yes we do."  
"How?"

The corner of Sherlock's lips turned upwards as he lowered his notebook, looking back at the girl sitting at his desk. 

"Shelby wasn't wearing her wedding ring when she was murdered," Sherlock began, "hasn't worn it in a while, either. There's a tan line from years of wearing it, but it was beginning to fade. Mrs. Unity was only staying with her husband because she didn't want to risk losing the children."  
"Why would she lose the children? It didn't look like she was inherently poor."  
"Mister Unity was the breadwinner of the household. Even _if_ Mrs. Unity had a job, she wouldn't be able to take care of their three children and pay for a house as lavish as theirs. She was only staying with Mister Unity because she knew she wasn't able to support herself."

Sophia leaned back in the chair, staring up at Sherlock like he was some mythical being. _How_ , she thought, blinking at the man, _how does he do it?_ Suddenly, Sherlock's laptop pinged, a small envelope icon popping up on the screen. Sherlock swiftly joined Sophia's side, leaning over her shoulder as he squinted at the screen.

"What is it?"  
"I had Lestrade send me all of Mister and Mrs. Unity's phone records in the last seventy two hours."  
"Why?"  
"Because Mister Unity has been cheating on his wife for two years, so he's bound to be in contact with his mistress."  
"So you think the _mistress_ killed Shelby?"  
"No," Sherlock picked up the laptop, pressing and clicking buttons that Sophia couldn't see, "I think the mistress had Mister Unity kill his wife."

The laptop spewed three pieces of paper. Sherlock retrieved the papers and handed them to Sophia, allowing her to look through the texts. Somewhere in her mind, Sophia felt slightly uncomfortable sifting through a potential murderer's texts. 

"This name keeps coming up," Sophia pointed out, circling the name with her pencil, "'Clarity Mason'. She texts him a lot and calls him more."  
"The last time she spoke to Mister Unity was forty-eight hours before Shelby was murdered," Sherlock said, "' _Make it look like a suicide. We can book a plan to Ireland tonight. We can finally be together. I love you._ ' Like I said," Sherlock glanced back to Sophia, "it was the mistresses idea."  
"So Mister Unity _wanted_ to leave his wife?"  
"But divorce is often times messy and expensive," Sherlock placed the papers down on the table, "but if his wife were to have died; there's no child support to pay, no papers to file, and he can be with Clarity," Sherlock's fingers sat in front of his lips as he pieced things together, "Mister Unity killed his wife, positioned her in the living room and then picked up their kids so that when they came home, it looked like she had killed herself."

Sophia sighed, running her hand along her face. She wanted to be happy that Sherlock had pieced together the murder, she truly did. But all she could think about was Ingrid and her brother. He father had killed his wife because he was selfish. 

"I need to talk to Clarity," Sherlock moved towards the door, "might even get a confession. If we catch her in time, we might be able to stop her from getting to Ireland."

Sophia watched the detective, watched as he rushed towards the door. Wordlessly, she stood from the desk and made her way past Sherlock. He reached for her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. She looked up at him, meeting his crystal eyes. 

"Where are you going?"  
"Back to my flat," Sophia simply replied, "you said you have to go speak to Clarity."  
"Well you're obviously coming along," Sherlock countered, "we've gotten this far together, might as well see it through."  
"Why? Surely you'd be better off with someone else."  
"You're doing just fine," Sherlock offered a smile as he tied his scarf around his neck, "besides, the experience might help with that books of yours. So, coming?"  
"Well when you put it like that," Sophia tried to bite down her smile, but the attempt was in vain, "how can I say no?"

The two shared a grin that almost felt kind. For a moment, a brief moment at that, Sophia saw a completely different side of Sherlock; a _human_ side. In that moment, together, the two almost felt like friends. With a single movement and wink, Sherlock led her out the door and onto the streets, waving his hand for a taxi.

* * *

Clarity Manson’s home was quaint and quiet, built of bricks and deep wood. Through the window, Sherlock and Sophia could see her rush around, speaking on her phone. Sophia felt a knot tie itself inside his stomach as they neared the front door. Of course, it made sense for Sophia to be nervous; this was her first case, first encounter with a potential murderer. But Sherlock looked unfazed, like this was just a typical Friday night. She stood slightly behind Sherlock, almost as if she were hiding behind him. He knocked on the door, waiting for Clarity to answer. The door creaked open, revealing Clarity Manson. She was a shorter woman, maybe a few inches taller than Sophia. Her hair fell in wisps of ginger, curled at the tips. Her eyes were cold and blue, like there wasn’t any sort of emotion in her.

“Can I help you?”  
“Sherlock Holmes and Sophia Addair, we’re with the police,” Sherlock lied through his teeth, “may we ask you a few questions?”  
“Well I’m quite busy at the moment,” Clarity crossed her arms over her chest, “I don’t know if-...”  
“We’ll be quick,” Sophia cut Clarity off, “won’t take more than a few minutes.”  
“Alright,” Clarity stepped out of the way for the two step inside the house, “please, come in.”

Sherlock led the way, sending an almost pleased grin to Sophia as they stepped into the living room. Sophia followed behind Sherlock, her entire stomach twisting in a way she never thought possible. Sherlock offered a sense of security, as if he had done this a million times over. Clarity stood, wrapped in her dressing gown with her arms still crossed. She was clearly defensive, overly suspicious of the pair standing in her living room.

"Are you going away for long?" Sherlock questioned, never truly looking at Clarity.  
"Why do you think I'm leaving?"  
"The suitcases," Sophia spoke from behind Sherlock, pointing at the suitcases in the hallway, "there's quite a few of them. Are you?"  
"Um, yes," she was hesitant to answer, "I'm actually moving to Ireland. My partner," she inhaled sharply, "my partner thought it would be best to go away for a little while."  
"Your partner," Sherlock mused for a moment, "you mean Mister Charles Unity, yes?"

Sherlock turned, watching as the woman began to flush. All the color had drained from her face, leaving her pale and frightened all at once. Sophia stood at Sherlock's side, watching as the woman's breathing began to accelerate. 

"He has a wife, doesn't he?" Sherlock continued to question, "And children in fact; a daughter and a son. Funny he's running away with a woman who isn't his wife, isn't it?"  
"Please," Clarity sighed, flustered by the indications Sherlock was making, "Charles and Shelby haven't slept in the same bed together for almost three years. I don't blame him for wanting to get away from that _woman_ for a little while."  
"But he’s a married man with children, surely he’d want to just get a divorce to be rid of her and make room for you. Ah,” Sherlock kept his hands behind his back as he continued to pace around the room, “but he wasn’t the one who thought about leaving his wife, he wasn’t that clever. But you, Miss. Manson, you were the one whispering in his ear. That’s all it takes, one idea precisely dropped in intervals until it starts nagging away at his brain. You knew he didn’t want to pay child support because if he did, he wouldn’t have enough money to keep you happy. So you continuously and periodically mentioned the idea of staging a suicide so that you two could run away together without being suspected.”  
“I-I-I don’t know what you’re insinuating…”  
“Charles Unity shot his wife in the temple and then you helped stage the body so that it would look like a suicide. You’ve packed your entire life into the suitcases so that you can hide all the evidence but I’m sure if Scotland Yard looked through them they can find the gun inside, am I right?”

Sophia stared between Clarity and Sherlock, wide-eyed and completely amazed. Clarity’s eyes began to well up, tears rolling down her deathly pale cheeks.

“Shelby never loved Charles,” she hissed, “never kissed him, never gave him what he wanted. I did him a favor by getting rid of her.”  
“But do you have any idea what you’ve done to his children?” Sophia spoke up, eyebrows furrowed together in disgust, “They’re going to grow up without their mother. You don’t love Charles, the only person you’ve ever loved is yourself.”  
“I did what I _knew_ was right for him.”  
“Well you can explain that to Scotland Yard,” Sherlock relaxed his shoulders, “I’m sure they can determine what you did was ‘right’.”

Almost on cue, the door swung open; policemen barging in with guns all pointed at Clarity. Detective Lestrade stalked towards the woman, handcuffs in hand.

“Clarity Manson, you are under arrest for the corroboration of Shelby Unity’s murder,” he shoved her along, “take her out, boys.”

Sophia watched as a policeman slapped handcuffs onto Clarity's wrists. The anger bubbled inside of Sophia, and she stepped to Clarity with a scowl she never knew she could muster.

"You've ruined her children's lives," Sophia hissed, narrowing her eyes at the woman, "Ingrid and Louis are going to grow up orphans, because of _you_."

Sophia stood, almost feeling numb as she watched everyone mill around the room. She could hear someone speaking to her, but she couldn’t exactly say who it was. Clarity became a dull buzz, being dragged away with drenched cheeks and cries of innocence. When she snapped back into reality, she was met with Sherlock staring back at her, waiting for her to say something. The detective looked almost concerned for Sophia; maybe he had pushed her a bit too far. 

“I,” she swallowed hard, “I need some air.”

She pushed her way through the crowd of policemen, almost _running_ to get out of the house. Her stomach was still knotted and her heart was beginning to race. She spotted a bench a few paces away from the house, a place to clear her head. Her hands stayed clamped to her knees as she tried to control her breathing; deep inhales in and deep inhales out. All in one day, she had seen a dead body, helped Sherlock find the motive for murder and then _caught_ the murderer all at once. It was honestly too much for her to handle. 

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s voice made her jump, her grip only tightening around her knees. She swallowed again as she looked up at the man, trying to feign calmness.

“Yea,” she nodded her head rapidly, “I’m fine. I just,” she shook her head, “I just can’t believe he killed his wife. How can a person do that?”  
“Like I said,” Sherlock started, “she was the dominant in the relationship. She practically had Charles wrapped around her finger, it wouldn’t take much for her to manipulate him into agreeing with her plan.”

Sophia almost wanted to chuckle, to do something but she was frozen in her own thoughts.

“You know,” Sherlock pondered his next words for a moment, “you’re one of the reasons why Clarity and Charles are going to prison. Without you, they probably would’ve been able to flee and most likely would’ve gotten away.”  
“I didn’t do much,” Sophia said, “you were the one that put the pieces together.”  
“Sophia, I have worked many cases on my own before I met John, and even then, you are one of the few that have been able to keep up. You should give yourself a bit more credit than you do.”

Sophia looked at Sherlock again, but this time, he offered a smile that didn’t seem forced. She smiled back at him, the knots in her stomach coming undone and her heart beginning to finally beat normally again.


	7. The Key to Baker Street

“What was today about?” Sophia entered 221B, eyes wild and hands perfectly placed on her hips, “You didn’t  _ need  _ me, but you asked me to come along anyways. Why?”

All movement stopped inside the flat, both men staring at the woman who stood inside. There was a fierceness inside of Sophia that even she had never felt before. John looked between the two, almost amused at what was about to transpire. Sherlock continued to stay sat in his chair, hands perfectly knitted in front of his face.

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” Sophia crossed her arms across her chest, “you and I both know you didn’t  _ have  _ to bring me to that crime scene, and you definitely didn’t need my help solving the case. What was it all about?”  
“What I said today, I meant it,” Sherlock slowly stood, his eyes finally meeting Sophia’s, “aside from John, you are one of the few who can keep up. But you’ve been selling yourself short for far too long.”  
“So you brought me along to prove a point?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied pointedly, now towering over Sophia, “you are not an idiot like most people. No ordinary person would’ve put the pieces together as quickly as you did. You’re good.”  
“But not as good as you.” Sophia mumbled.  
“No one is as good as him,” John cut in, continuing to flip through a book that he wasn’t really reading, “you get used to it.”

Sophia looked at Sherlock, eyes never leaving his. She knew he was trying to understand her, she could see his mind working quickly. She pursed her lips and exhaled sharply, shoulders falling in defeat. 

“You’ve got to admit it,” Sherlock almost looked amused, “you enjoyed it.”  
“You think I enjoyed looking at a woman’s dead body, reading through her husband's sick and twisted messages about his wife and then going to the woman who planned the whole thing?”  
“Well, I wouldn’t make it sound so boring but,” his lip turned upwards, “yes.”

John was the one that noticed the twinkle in Sophia’s eyes, a smile pushing its way onto her lips. 

“It was the most fun I’ve had in years.”  
“I would suspect so,” Sherlock chuckled, something John had only seen a few times, “I might make a habit of this, taking you along with me.”  
“Why would you do that? You have John to help you.”  
“I actually like this idea,” John but in, a somewhat  _ excited  _ grin forming on his lips, “I am at work most of the day, and he’s usually sulking in his chair until I get back. Besides,” he queried his head to the side, “a fresh face is always nice.”

Sophia looked between John and Sherlock, her amused grin never leaving her lips. 

“Alright then,” she nodded once, “I wouldn’t mind tagging along. Who knows,” she shrugged her shoulders, “maybe it’ll help with my book.”  
“Excellent.”

John caught the smile Sherlock wore, and he wished there was a way to capture that moment. He had known the detective for a short while, and had only seen Sherlock  _ truly  _ happy a handful of times. But he noted the way Sherlock looked at Sophia, the way his body would suddenly falter. Sherlock had put up walls his entire life, John knew that much. And he also knew that it was going to take a long while for himself to crack them. But with Sophia, John noticed, it almost seemed too easy. So he simply ignored it with that knowing smile, folding it deep inside his mind where it was safest. 

* * *

“How’s London, dear? Have you settled finally?”  
“Yes, mum, I’m all settled in,” Sophia giggled as she walked about her flat, “London is wonderful.”  
“You sound oddly happy,” she could hear her mother’s grin over the phone, “is there something I should know about?”

Sophia bit down on her bottom lip, clutching her phone tightly. For a moment, she contemplated telling her mother about Sherlock, about the excellent and brilliant man she was now living above.

“My neighbors,” she took a deep breath, “they’re wonderful. One of them is an army doctor and the other is a detective.”   
“An army doctor and a detective? Are you living in one of your stories again?”  
“Not this time,” Sophia shook her head, “the army doctor, he's wonderful, you'd love him. And the detective; he’s absolutely brilliant, mum. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before, I don’t think I could even  _ write  _ someone like that.”  
“Well I’m happy you’re enjoying London, Sophia. We all want what’s best for you.”  
“It is,” she heard knocking at her front door, “I have to go, but I’ll be sure to call soon, okay?”  
“Okay, honey. I love you.”  
“I love you, too.”

She swiftly hung up the phone as she rushed to her door, opening it to reveal Sherlock. He stood tall and still, much like he often did. 

“Sherlock!” her shoulders immediately relaxed, “Is there something I can do for you?” She offered a friendly smile, “Do you need my help with a case?”  
“On the contrary, I have something to give you,” he reached into his pocket, retrieving a silver key, “since you’ll be spending an awful lot of time inside my flat, I figured you might need this.”

Sophia stared at the key, her eyes widening at Sherlock’s words. She slowly reached for it, holding the cold piece of silver with her fingertips. In her hands, she held the key to Baker Street, the key to gain access to the most brilliant man she had ever met. Her smile grew as she looked at Sherlock, her eyes twinkling in the lights.

“Now, if you aren’t doing anything of importance, I  _ could  _ use your insight on a case I’m working on.”  
“Of course,” she nodded as she closed her flat door, “I would be delighted.”


	8. The Man With The Umbrella

"Sophia," Mister Atkins called as he popped his head in the doorway, "there's someone here to see you."

There was a certain sense of urgency and uneasiness that came from Mister Atkins' voice that almost caused for concern. Slowly enough, Sophia placed the novels she was stacking down on the table and exited the backroom. Before she had gone inside, there was maybe ten people inside the small bookstore, but now, there were only three. Men in black suits stood around the store, all eyeing Sophia as if she were some threat. Mister and Misses Atkins' were being ushered inside one of the backrooms, far away from whatever was about to transpire. And almost on cue, the door swung open again, but this time it was a man. 

He was definitely an older gentleman, Sophia could tell that much. And he was wealthy, judging by the three piece suit and pocket watch chain that hung on the breast pocket. His hair was thin, and it would soon begin to bald, Sophia thought to herself with an almost amused glint in her eyes. The man's cold eyes fell upon her, and she suddenly shrunk. What had she done for a man of this stature to come and find her? Had she broken a law she didn't know about? Had her _family_ done something back home? The questions milled around her brain, swarming like little bees inside a hive. 

"Sophia, is it?" the man looked to her, narrowing his eyes with a tight-lipped smile, "Please, have a seat."  
"I prefer to stand," she wanted to make her voice even, but it still wobbled, "what is this about?"

The man couldn't help but looked amused with Sophia's need to go against his words. He swung his umbrella at his side as he looked at the girl, eyes scanning like he was reading.

"What is your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

The mention of Sherlock's name made Sophia inhale sharply, as if she needed to conserve all her breath in that moment. She hugged her arms around her body, clutching her biceps in an attempt to keep herself from shaking. 

"What do you mean?" she asked carefully.  
"You've only recently moved to Baker Street and you're already assisting him with cases," the man said, his eyes never leaving Sherlock, "what is your association with Sherlock Holmes?"  
"I-I don't have one," she tried to lie, but she was never really good, "he's just my neighbor, I live just beneath him," she answered cautiously, "he's my friend."  
"You've met him, you've also spent quite a bit of time with him," the man chuckled to himself, "how many friends do you think Sherlock _actually_ has?"  
"What does it matter to you? I don't even know who you _are_."  
"An interested party," the man replied without missing a beat, "interested in any information you can give me."  
"About Sherlock? Why?"

The man paused, thinking over his words carefully.

"I worry about him," the man said slowly, "constantly."  
"I'm not a spy," Sophia shook her head, "whatever it is you want me to do, I won't. That's not who I am."  
"You've become very loyal, _very_ quickly. Is there any reason as to why?"  
"Because I don't want to," Sophia said sternly, "I don't care what you offer me, I won't spy on Sherlock for you. He's my friend, and I wouldn't do that to a friend."

The man couldn't help but nod once before motioning to the men in suits, watching as they filed out of the bookstore. 

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Addair. Do enjoy the rest of your day."

The man exited the shop, leaving Sophia completely shell-shocked. She looked to Mister and Misses Atkins' with an apologetic smile before returning to the back room. She thought she was going to shake into oblivion. _Who_ was this man? And _why_ was he so interested in her affiliation with Sherlock?

* * *

If Sophia hadn't known any better, she could've sworn Sherlock was almost _waiting_ for her to come home. By the time she made it to 221B's landing, the door swung open. Sherlock stood, wearing his usual attire with a furrowed brow.

"Sherlock, hi," she tried to feign a smile, but she knew it came out forced, "how're you?"  
"Something's bothering you," he pointed out, "is something the matter?"

Sophia chuckled to herself as she shrugged, meeting his eyes once again. He wordlessly moved out of the doorway for her to enter the flat. She mouthed a 'thank you' as she pushed inside, feeling almost _relieved_ to be inside the flat. She hung her bag on the hook by the door before situating herself on the sofa.

"A man came to visit me at my job today," she began as Sherlock closed the door, "he was asking about you."

She didn't need to see Sherlock's face to see how he tensed. He sharply turned to Sophia, his eyes scanning her for something that he possibly couldn't read.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"  
"He didn't get the chance," Sophia shook her head, "I declined before he could."  
"Pity, John did the same thing when he first met me," Sherlock replied, almost like he was disappointed, "we could've split the fee."

At that moment, the door opened again revealing John. Sophia gave a soft smile before looking back to Sherlock.

"What's going on?" John questioned, "Did something happen?"  
"Mycroft's given Sophia a visit," Sherlock answered, and Sophia noted how John tensed as well, "he really needs to stay out of my personal relationships."

John smiled in agreement as he sat down in his designated chair, placing both of his palms on the armrests. 

"Who is he, Sherlock? Why did he come to me?"  
"Mycroft is my brother," Sherlock replied, although his tone was sour, " _older_ brother."  
"Brother? Why would your brother be interested in me?"  
"Well, seeing as John wouldn't give him what he wanted, he went to the only other person who I interact with on a daily basis. He knows best not to bother Mrs. Hudson."

The two men shared a familiar laugh, Sherlock sitting down in his own chair. Sophia thought back to the man she had met, and suddenly the pieces fell into place yet again. She noted the ice-colored eyes that the man had, how incredibly intelligent he was.

"He won't bother you again," Sherlock reassured her, "he's no threat to you. He's got better things to worry about," he crossed his legs over the other, "running the British Government and all."  
"What exactly did you tell him anyways?"  
"I told him I don't spy on my friends," Sophia said as she leaned back against the sofa, "no amount of money could make me."

Sherlock was the one that turned to Sophia now, his eyebrows becoming furrowed again.

"Friends?"  
"Yea," Sophia nodded, unsure of what Sherlock meant, "I consider you and John my friends. Why? Should I not?"  
"It's not that," Sherlock was quick to clarify, "it's just, I don't have many friends."

There was something vulnerable about Sherlock's words, like he was almost pained by the statement. She could understand, to some degree, why people didn't warm up to Sherlock quickly. He was abrasive, and sometimes he seemed ice cold. His deductions sometimes sent people running, or others found him completely insufferable. But these qualities, _these_ were the reasons why Sophia had been drawn to Sherlock. She had grown up in an uneventful town in Scotland, everyone was so _painfully_ ordinary. But Sherlock wasn't; he was absolutely _extraordinary_ in the best ways. Sophia looked at John, her mind wandering on it's own. 

John wasn't exactly dull, he couldn't have been if he were to be around Sherlock. But he was a normal man, and Sophia knew at some point or another, John must've grown irritated with Sherlock's mind like everyone else. But John must've seen something that she had seen, and found a reason to stick around. Even if she had only known Sherlock for a week or so, she knew that she wanted to be around the brilliant man like John did. And if they were to be the only two to be his friends, then she would do it with a smile. She gave the man a warm hearted smile as she stood up from the sofa, her locks falling onto her shoulders. 

"You've given me the key to your flat," she almost laughed, "I think that qualifies as some sort of friendship."  
"I'd say." John chuckled from his seat.

Sophia and John shared friendly laughter, neither of them catching the way Sherlock softened. He would never admit it out loud, never entertain the idea of feeling something so _warm_. But he knew he was lucky that John and Sophia cared about him, that they had both found reasons to stay.


	9. When The Flat Exploded

" _Rory stared at the man, her entire body yearning to just run after him. He was too quick for her, always ready with the next missing piece before she could even grasp it. When she was around him, she felt like he was leading her into a brand new world. With a heavy sigh, she reached for her coat hanging off the back of the chair and hurried after him, excitement bubbling inside of her._ "

"Must be something interesting happening in that book of yours," Sophia recognized that voice, "you're working awfully fast."

Sophia's lips turned into a small smile as she paused, peering up from her laptop screen. Sherlock stood in front of her, wearing a friendly grin she had grown quite fond of. He was wearing his long coat, scarf perfectly wrapped around his neck and resting against his chest.

"Sherlock," her voice sounded sweet, "I thought you were going to be in Russia until Friday."  
"Unfortunately, the case ended up being boring," Sherlock sighed, shaking his head, "there was no point in staying any longer."  
"Well, I'm sorry to hear," she shut her laptop and stared into his eyes, "I'm glad you're back, though. Baker Street is much too calm without you."

Sophia giggled behind her hand, so she missed the tenderness in Sherlock's eyes. He had grown too used to people relishing in his absence. But Sophia had _missed_ him; something he wasn't used to. She looked back up at the consulting detective, eyes twinkling like a million diamonds. 

"Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?" Sherlock suddenly offered, "Or you can continue sitting on this step for next four hours."  
"As much as I would love to, I've got to phone my mum before she thinks I've forgotten about her. But," she entertained a smile, "I can come back later tonight if you'd like."  
"I suppose that will do," Sherlock replied, ascending up the staircase, "I'll be looking forward."

* * *

" _'For whatever reason, Miss Clarke, I can't seem to understand you. You are a mystery to me, one that I am eager to crack.' the detective loomed over the petite girl._  
 _'There isn't anything interesting about me,' Rory replied, voice low and almost anxious, 'why waste your time?'_  
 _'Like I said, you are a mystery worth cracking.'"_

Sophia had never heard an _actual_ gunshot in her life. Sure, she's heard them in shows and movies, and in some songs she listened to. But the sound of an actual gun nearly made her jump out of her skin. She quickly shut her laptop and slipped her feet into her slippers before rushing down the stairs. At the same time, John was coming up from downstairs, wrapped tightly in his black coat. The two peered into 221B, only to be met with Sherlock draped across his armchair. He was wearing his pajama pants and a loose fitting gray tee shirt, his housecoat dangling around him. A pistol dangled from his hand, head thrown back as he stared at the ceiling.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John shouted, stepping into the flat.  
"Bored." Sherlock answered.   
"What?" Sophia questioned, tilting her head.   
"Bored!"

Sherlock jumped from the chair. John, instinctively, placed both his hands over Sophia's ears so that she wouldn't have to listen. After each shot, she flinched against John's chest. After two more shots, Sherlock dropped his arm, allowing John to grab the pistol from him.

"Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes," Sherlock said slowly, sauntering over to the couch, "good job I'm not one of them."  
"So you take it out on the wall?" John questioned, placing the gun back in one of the drawers.  
"Oh, the wall had it coming."

He fell back against the sofa, stretching out his legs so that he could take up the entire space. John looked completely neutral to the whole interaction, as if this was something he had just become used to. He sent Sophia a small nod as he slid off his coat, allowing Sophia entry into the flat. She sat down in John's chair, pulling her legs up to her chest to curl completely in the seat.

"What about that Russian case?"  
"Belarus," Sherlock announced, curling his toes, "open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."  
"Ah, shame!" John sighed sarcastically as he made his way into the kitchen, of course, throwing his hands up at the mess on the table, "Anything in? I'm starving."

Sophia heard the door open and shut from the refrigerator, and then a sudden gasp followed. She turned her head to look over the back of the chair, eyebrows furrowing in question. She stood up, joining John's side in front of the fridge. He opened it again, revealing a head to Sophia. She didn't gasp however, she just stared at the lifeless head inside. 

"It's a head," John called out, closing the fridge door, "a severed head!"  
"Just tear for me, thanks." Sherlock monotonously answered.   
"No, there's a head in the fridge."  
"Yes."  
"A _bloody_ head!"  
"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock questioned, looking up from his position on the couch to eye John, "you don't mind do you?"

Sophia joined John inside the living room again, taking her spot back on the chair. John sighed, staring back into the kitchen in disbelief.

"I got it from Bart's morgue," Sherlock continued, "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. I see you've written up the taxi drive case." he waved his hand dismissively.   
"Ah, yes." John nodded, taking a seat in Sherlock's chair.  
" _A Study In Pink_ ," he recited, "nice."  
"Well, you know," John shrugged, "pink lady, pink case, pink phone - there was _a lot_ of pink. Did you like it?"  
"Um," Sherlock hesitated as he flipped through a random magazine, "no."  
"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."  
" _Flattered_?" Sherlock mocked, "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

Sophia couldn't help but snicker behind her hand, earning a scowl from the consulting detective on the couch. 

"Now hang on a minute," John tried to redeem himself, "I didn't mean that in a..."  
"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a _nice_ way!"  
"He has a point, John," Sophia interjected, "it wasn't the best way to put it."  
"Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister..." Sherlock continued.  
"I know." John said quietly.  
"Or who's sleeping with who..."  
"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun."  
"Not that again. It's not _important_."  
"Not impor-..." John shifted his position in the chair to face Sherlock, "it's primary school stuff. _How_ can you not know that?"  
"Well," Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, "if I ever did, I've deleted it."  
"Deleted it?" Sophia questioned.

Sherlock swung his legs over the sofa, now resting them on the floor to face Sophia and John.

"Listen," he pressed his finger to his temple, "this is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, _really_ useful," he grimaced, "ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John was silent for only a moment, biting his lip. 

"But it's the _solar system_!"  
"Oh, hell! What does that _matter_?" he looked at John in frustration, "So we go round the Sun! If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden," he waved his hands around in rhythm with the children's poem, "it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots," he ruffled his hair with his hands, his curls falling onto his forehead, "put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

Petulantly, he shoved the magazine across the coffee table before lying back down on the couch. He was now curled in the corner, head tucked between his chest and the cushion. Sophia glanced back at John, watching as he pursed his lips and stood. 

"Where are you going?"  
"Out," John replied tightly, "I need some air."

Sophia sighed, shaking her head as she watched John rush down the stairs. She then looked at Sherlock, almost in amusement. He resembled a sulking child, throwing a temper tantrum because he hadn't gotten his way. Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, knocking twice before shuffling into the kitchen.

"Have you two had a little domestic?"

Sherlock didn't answer, though, he simply rose to his feet and stomped over the coffee table. He stood in front of the window, staring down at the street. 

"Oh, it's a bit nippy out there," Mrs. Hudson commented from the kitchen, "he should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sophia now stood from her chair, staring at Sherlock in curiosity. 

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," he scanned the street, "quiet, calm, peaceful," he dragged in a long breath, "isn't it _hateful_?"  
"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder, that'll cheer you up."  
"Can't come too soon." Sophia mumbled, earning a small grin from Sherlock.

Before Mrs. Hudson could even leave the flat, she glanced at the main wall, eyebrows furrowing again. 

"Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?" 

Sherlock couldn't help but quirk a smile as he turned, admiring his handiwork. Sophia joined his side, mirroring his grin almost perfectly.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!"

Sophia couldn't help but laugh, trying to hide it from behind her hand, but the attempt was in vain. For a moment, a brief moment, the two shared laughter like they had been friends for years. But the moment was cut short by an explosion, glass and wood cascading around them. Sophia was thrown forward, her back hitting the wall with an unsettling crack. She could hear Sherlock groan in front of her, but she was too afraid to open her eyes. 

"Sophia?" Sherlock called out for her, coughing as he inhaled all the dust and debris, "Sophia!"

He managed to stagger to his feet, brushing off the wood shards and pieces of glass. Sophia shook as she laid on the floor, hands covering her head protectively. 

"It's okay," Sherlock tried to keep his voice calm as he placed his hands over hers, "it's okay. Look at me," his voice was tender, "can you do that for me?"  
"I-I don't know," Sophia stuttered, her hands trembling underneath Sherlock's, "I don't think I can."  
"Yes you can," Sherlock encouraged her, holding her hands gently, "I'm going to help you up, alright?"

Carefully, Sherlock helped Sophia to her feet, steadying her so that she wouldn't fall over. He took this time to examine her face, noticing all the cuts that littered her face. A piece of glass that lodged itself underneath her left eye, only millimeters away from nearly blinding her. Sophia looked around the flat, tears the size of beads rolling down her cheeks as the shock settled in.

"What," she swallowed hard, looking around the destruction, "what the _hell_ happened?"  
"I don't know," Sherlock answered, even though it wasn't the answer Sophia wanted to hear, "I don't like not knowing."

Sophia sighed, her head weakly falling against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stood stiffly, unsure of how exactly to comfort the crying woman. She clung to the detective, all of the anxiety and fear flooding her in every way. When the tears subsided, she wiped her cheeks with the palms of her hand in an attempt to calm herself again.

"Let me get the glass out of your eye," Sherlock offered carefully, "and then maybe I can make you that cup of tea I offered earlier."

Although Sophia wasn't in the mood to even laugh, she managed to smile just enough. With a firm grip on her hand, Sherlock led her into the kitchen, helping her onto the counter so that she was comfortable. He carefully pulled the glass shard out of her cheek, throwing it into the garbage. She looked down at her hands, her stomach twisting itself into knots. He placed a bandage underneath her eye and wrapped her knuckles before sighing, shaking his head. 

"The tea can wait," Sherlock said lowly, "get some rest. You're going to need your strength in the morning."  
"Why do you say that?"  
"I don't know," Sherlock replied, "I've got a feeling something is going to happen. If it will make you feel better, you can stay here for the night."  
"A-Are you sure?"  
"Of course," Sherlock nodded, "I've got a lot to think about, no use to sleep now."

Sophia could feel her cheeks warm up as she stared at Sherlock, and she wanted nothing more than to deny her heart racing inside her chest. Without another word, she slowly made her way down the hall and stepped into Sherlock's bedroom. It smelled of his cologne, she noted, and of ashes. She slipped underneath the covers, curling tightly underneath them. 


	10. Not A Gas Leak

The first thing Sophia noticed when she woke in the morning was that her entire body ached. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, using her left hand to run her fingers through her hair. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness of the unfamiliar room. Almost in an instant, the events of the night before came crashing down on her and she remembered where she was: Sherlock's room. She quickly swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, catching her reflection in the mirror. She delicately brushed her fingertips along the large bandage that resided underneath her eye, recalling the events that led her to this point. With a heavy sigh, she reached for the doorknob and padded out of the room, eyes searching for the detective.

"Sleep well?"

She sharply turned her head towards the den, meeting Sherlock's icy eyes. They were more blue, a mixture of green and turquoise. He sat in his chair, almost like a perfect statue; perfectly still and silent. She gave a soft smile, using her left arm to hug her body. 

"I did," Sophia answered sheepishly, "bit sore this morning though."  
"As to be expected."  
"What about you? Did you sleep at all?"  
"Too much thinking," he replied as he steeped his fingers in front of his lips, "sleeping slows me down."

Sophia hummed as she slipped herself into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the shards of glass that were still littered on the floor. She managed to reach for one of the mugs in the cupboard and began brewing the water, glancing back to Sherlock every few seconds. 

"My brother will be arriving in the hour." Sherlock stated.

Sophia froze, staring into the empty mug. She then turned, looking at Sherlock with furrowed brows. 

"D'you want me to leave, then? I'm sure Mister Atkins would be fine if I came into work for a few hours to-..."  
"No," Sherlock abruptly stopped her, "stay. I'm going to need your help," he paused, "most likely."

Sophia nodded, slowly pouring the water into the mug. Wordlessly, she stepped into the living room, sitting down in John's chair. She looked around the flat, watching as wind passed through the slightly open curtains. There was still wood and glass lying across the desk and coffee table, papers strewn across the floor amidst the destruction. When she looked down at her knuckles, she almost grimaced. 

"Thank you, by the way." Sophia blurted out, almost like it was forced.  
"For what?"  
"Well, for starters, for taking the glass out of my cheek," she laughed under her breath, "and for making sure I was okay."  
"Oh," Sherlock looked taken aback, like he wasn't expecting Sophia to thank him at all, "you're welcome."

She offered a smile, and for a moment, Sherlock's lips turned upward in a ghost of a smile. Sophia stood, placing her mug in the sink before taking her leave to her own flat. When she pushed the door open, she let out a heavy sigh. Nothing major had happened to her flat, the glass hadn't even shattered like she had thought. She picked up her discarded laptop from her sofa, hugging it to her body as she shuffled into her bedroom. She placed her laptop on her bed as she shuffled over to her wardrobe, retrieving her clothes with a small smile. Once she was dressed, she made her way into the bathroom to brush her teeth. While she was getting ready, though, she could hear violin downstairs. 

She stopped for a moment, admiring the beautiful music that Sherlock played. Sophia couldn't explain why - and maybe it was better that way if she couldn't - but his music almost had an instant affect on her. It calmed her, made her feel completely at ease. Slowly, she put on her shoes and descended down the stairs again, arriving at the landing. It was almost poetic to see Sherlock play amongst the broken glass, like he was some magnificent being among mortal men. When the melody played out, he swiftly turned and took his seat in his usual chair. Sophia started to open her mouth, but quickly shut it when she heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting. 

"He's here," Sherlock spoke, placing his violin in his lap, "stand behind me, quickly."

Sophia didn't question Sherlock's words, she simply did as she was told. She stood behind the detective, knitting her hands nicely in front of her. Each step creaked as the person ascended up the flight of stairs, each groan making Sophia's heart beat faster. A man stood on the landing, adorning another three piece suit and an umbrella dangling at his side. Sophia recognized the man: Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. He scanned the room, a small grin dancing on his lips. His eyes then landed on Sophia, and his smile became sickly fake. 

"Miss Addair," his tone sounded airy, but his presence was anything but, "it's a pleasure to see you again. I see you've become rather comfortable around my little brother."  
"I-I-..."  
"Don't patronize her, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted Sophia's stuttering, "that's not what brought you here. What is it that you've come to bore me with?"

Mycroft visibly stiffened, and Sophia would be dammed if she ever admitted that she felt all her nerves suddenly loosen when Sherlock defended her. The eldest Holmes brother slowly sat down in John's chair, a file laying in his lap. 

"A matter has arisen and I need your expertise," he then eyed Sophia yet again, "a rather _private_ matter."  
"Sophia stays," Sherlock said quickly, "you can trust her."

Sherlock missed the way Sophia smiled, but Mycroft noticed almost immediately. Before he could continue, the door downstairs opened again. But this time, it was John, practically sprinting towards them.

"Sherlock!" he called through the stairwell, "Sophia!"

The man rushed into the flat, only to be met with Sophia and Sherlock; Sherlock plucking the strings of his violin.

"John." Sherlock addressed.  
"I saw it on the tell, are you both okay?" John questioned.  
"Hm? What?" Sherlock looked around the mess surrounding them, almost as if he had forgotten about the explosion only hours ago, "Oh, yea, fine. Gas leak, apparently."  
"Christ, Soph," John nearly leapt out of his skin when he glanced at the younger girl, "your eye."  
"I'm fine, John," she reassured the man, "really, I am. It's only a scratch."

The older man sighed, shaking his head as he looked around the flat.

"I can't." Sherlock addressed his brother.  
" _Can't_?" Mycroft questioned.  
"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."  
"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft pressed on, "this is of national importance."  
"How's the diet?" Sherlock sulkily flicked his finger across the violin strings.  
" _Fine_ ," Mycroft replied stiffly as he looked to John and Sophia, "perhaps one of _you_ can get through to him."  
"What?" Sophia and John said simultaneously.   
"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

Sophia wanted to laugh, but she swallowed it down as she continued to stand behind Sherlock.

"If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?"  
"No-no-no-no-no," Mycroft shook his head, "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time - not with the Korean elections so," he stopped as he noticed John, Sherlock and Sophia all staring at him, "well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he smiled humorlessly, "Besides, a case like this; it requires," he grimaced in distaste, "legwork."

Sherlock misplucked a string, earning a concerned look from Sophia. 

"How's Sarah, John?" Sherlock didn't look up from his work, "How was the lilo?"  
"Sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected as he consulted his pocket watch, "it was the sofa."

Sherlock glanced up, eyeing his friend before going back to the violin. 

"Oh, yes, of course."  
" _How_...? Oh, never mind." John sighed.   
"One day," Sophia leaned forward to whisper in Sherlock's ear, "you _have_ to show me how you do it." Sherlock laughed under his breath.  
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became," Mycroft looked at John, his smile still entirely false, _"pals._ What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."  
"I'm never bored."  
"Good!" Mycroft smiled condescendingly, "That's good, isn't it?"

Sherlock and Sophia both glared as Mycroft stood from the chair, extending the files towards his brother. But Sherlock didn't take them, he simply pointed the bow of his violin at him. Mycroft grimaced, poking his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he turned towards John. Sherlock gestured for Sophia to sit on the arm of his chair, and she did so obediently.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft began, handing John the file, "a civil servant; found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."  
"Jumped in front of a train?" John questioned.  
"Seems the logical assumption."

John wore a brief smile.

"But?"  
" _But_?" Mycroft repeated.  
"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

Sherlock smirked as he applied rosin on the bow. Even Sophia let out a small giggle, trying to hide it behind her hand.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system: the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."  
" _That_ wasn't very clever." Sophia sniggered, shaking her head; earning a very proud smile from Sherlock.  
"It's not the only copy."  
"Oh." John hummed.  
"But it _is_ secret. And missing."  
" _Top_ secret?"  
"Very," Mycroft replied, "we think West must've taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands," he turned back to Sherlock, who was too engrossed in whatever he was doing, "you've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."  
"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock replied sharply, raising his violin to his shoulder.  
"Think it over," Mycroft leaned forward, almost in an attempt to seem threatening, "talk some sense into him, would you, Sophia?"

Sophia simply ignored the man, hiding behind her curtain of hair. Mycroft then looked back to John, doing his part and wearing that same creepy smile.

"Goodbye, John," he extended his hand for him to shake, "see you _very_ soon."

Almost on cue, Sherlock began to play a series of irritating notes, all high-pitched and off tune. Sophia furrowed her eyebrows in confusion as she watched Mycroft leave, leaving the three alone again.

"Why'd you lie?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer right away, however. Downstairs, the door banged shut, indicating that Mycroft was officially gone.

"You've got nothing on, not a _single_ case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why'd you tell your brother you were busy?"  
"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock simply shrugged.   
"Oh," John nodded, "oh, I see," Sherlock's eyes drifted in John's direction, but he didn't _actually_ meet his eyes, "sibling rivalry, _now_ we're getting somewhere."

Sophia laughed, practically falling out of her position on the armrest and into Sherlock's lap. Before Sherlock could even defend himself, his phone started to ring. He fished his phone out of his pocket, pressing the button and holding it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes," he listened, his expression visibly intensifying, "of course. How could I refuse?"

Swiftly, he stood up and placed his violin on his chair. Sophia and John watched, raising their eyebrow as they watched the man.

"Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"  
"If you want me to." John said as she stood up.  
"Of course," picking up his coat, he turned back to his friend, "I'd be lost without my blogger," his eyes then landed on Sophia, "that includes you, Sophia. Come along."

Biting down a smile, Sophia stood from her seat and grabbed her coat from the back of 221B's door. Sherlock gave a smile to the duo as he led them out of the flat complex, waving down a taxi. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html
> 
> credit to the transcript author! all credit to bbc, i do not own SHERLOCK, only my own characters.


	11. Shoes

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade asked as he led the trio through the floor of Scotland Yard, "The surprising ones."  
"Obviously." Sherlock answered.  
"You'll love _this_. That explosion..."  
"Gas leak, yes?"  
"No."  
"No?" Sophia asked, her eyebrow rising.  
"No; made to _look_ like one."  
"What?"

The four stood inside Lestrade's office, Sophia shutting the door behind them. Sherlock froze, staring at a white envelope lying on a desk, almost ominously.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box, a _very_ strong box," Lestrade emphasized, "and inside it was this."  
"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock pointed to the envelope.  
"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade and Sophia watched as Sherlock reached towards the item, "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."  
"How reassuring."

Sherlock delicately picked up the envelope, walking across the room to another table with an angle poise lamp. He held it close to the bulb as he examined each side carefully. On the front of the envelope, Sophia noticed, was Sherlock's name.

"Nice stationary," Sherlock said pointedly, "Bohemian."  
"What?" Lestrade questioned.  
"From the Czech Republic," Sherlock continued, "no fingerprints?"  
"No."  
"She used a fountain pen," Sherlock stared intently at the writing, "a Parker Duofold - iridium nib."  
" _She_?" John repeated.  
"Obviously." Sherlock answered.  
" _Obviously_." John struggled to hold in his sigh.

Sherlock picked up a letter opener from the desk, carefully slitting open the envelope. He peered inside, opening his mouth in surprise as he reaches inside. In his hand was a pink iPhone. Sophia scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion, but John looked completely shocked.

"But that's," his shock has become verbal, "that's the phone: the pink phone."  
"What, from _the Study in Pink_?" Lestrade questioned.  
"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like," the detective stopped, turning to look at Lestrade, "the _Study in Pink_? You read his blog?"  
"Course I read his blog! We _all_ do. D'you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"

In the corner, Sally sniggered loudly. Sophia glared at Sally, almost ready to tear into the police woman. John pursed his lips in embarrassment, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new," he showed the phone to Sophia, "someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone, which means," he gave John an accusatory glare, one that the older tried to ignore, "your _blog_ has a far wider readership."

Sherlock switched on the phone, the room waiting in silence.

"You have one new message." the voice alert said.

There was no voice, there were only four short pips followed by a longer one. Sophia raised her eyebrow, looking up at Sherlock; awaiting his answer to what was happening.

"Is that it?" she whispered.  
"No, that's _not_ it."

A picture popped up onto the screen; an unfurnished room with a fireplace on the wall. The wallpaper was peeling and there was a tall mirror propped up in one of the corners. There was another small mirror resting on top of the mantelpiece. Sophia eyed the picture, trying to take in every detail.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade questioned, "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"  
"It's a warning." Sherlock said, gazing into the distance.   
"A warning?" Sophia looked at the detective again, "What do you mean?"  
"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that," he explained, " _five_ pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again," he briefly looked down at the picture again before brandishing the phone, "I've seen this place before."

He turned to leave the office, Sophia following closely behind in an attempt to keep in time with his strides.

"Hang on," John called after him, " _what's_ gonna happen again?"  
" _Boom_!" Sherlock exclaimed, raising his hands dramatically.

* * *

Sophia, Lestrade, John and Sherlock were crammed inside a taxi; Sophia practically sitting on Sherlock's lap in an attempt to fit inside. The minute the vehicle stopped, Sherlock leapt out, the others hot on his tracks. He quickly unlocked the door to 221B, pushing the door open with a very determined force. He bypassed the stairs and walked along the corridor towards Mrs. Hudson's front door. Sophia looked up at the door they stood in front of, reading the numbers that read '221C'. She vividly remembered viewing this flat when she first decided to move to London, but there was something about it that seemed off to her. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called. 

Mrs. Hudson shuffled out of her flat, staring at the man with a questioning gleam.

"I need the key to this flat."

The woman simply nodded, scurrying back to her flat. It only took her a few moments to come back, holding the keys outward to Sherlock. 

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock," she looked at the detective, "when you first came to see about your flat."  
"The door's been opened recently." Sherlock stated, closely examining the keyhole.  
"No, can't be. That's the only key."

Sherlock pulled the padlock off, selecting another key from the bundle. 

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements," Mrs. Hudson was beginning to ramble, but neither of the people in the group were really listening, especially Sherlock, "I had a place once when I was first married," Sherlock practically ran out of the small corridor, leading the group inside 221C, "black mold all up the walls..."

Lestrade closed the door behind him, leaving Mrs. Hudson in that corridor without another word. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushing open another door to the living room. Sophia stood at Sherlock's side, staring out the layout of the flat. It was exactly as it was in the photograph, moldy and dank like Mrs. Hudson had mentioned. But in the middle of the room, though, was a pair of trainers; the toes of the shoes pointed towards the door. 

"Shoes."  
"Thank you for pointing out the bleedin' obvious, John." Sophia said in mock sarcasm, nudging the man with a small grin.

Sherlock slowly approached the shoes, but it was John that held out at cautionary hand towards him.

"He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock momentarily paused, looking back at Sophia; almost like he was asking for permission to continue forward. She gave a soft nod, hugging her arms around her body as she watched him continue forward. He crouched down, hands on the floor as he lowered his body down. Before Sherlock could get a better look at the trainers, the shrill sound of a phone ringing cut through the silence. Sherlock jumped at the sound, taking a deep breath before closing his eyes as he rose again. He slid off his glove and reached into his pocket, holding the pink iPhone in his hand again. He gave a brief glance to the three in the room before unlocking the phone and holding it up to his mouth.

"Hello?"

There was nothing for a moment, only the sound of a shaky breath.

"H-Hello...sexy."

 _A woman_? Sophia, John and Lestrade all shared the same puzzled look, staring between one another before looking back at Sherlock.

"Who's this?"  
"I've...sent you...a little puzzle...just to say hi." the woman tearfully spoke.  
"Who's talking?" Sherlock continued, "Why are you crying?"  
"I-I'm not...crying," the woman's voice was still shaky, her sobs completely obvious, "I'm typing...and this...stupid...bitch...is reading it out."

The woman let out another sob, and Sophia had to turn around. She couldn't believe _this_ was happening right now, in this moment. She shook her head as she turned back, watching as Sherlock gazed off thoughtfully into the distance.

"The curtain rises." he said softly.  
"What?" John raised his eyebrow.  
"Nothing."   
No, what did you mean, Sherlock?" Sophia pressed on.  
"I've been expecting this for some time."   
"Twelve hours to solve...my puzzle, Sherlock..." the woman said slowly, "or I'm going...to be...so naughty."

The line cut off abruptly, leaving the group completely frozen. Sherlock took his gloved hand and picked up the shoes, turning back to Sophia and John. Sophia watched him carefully, arms still hugging her body in an attempt to hug herself.

"Do you still want to help me?" his voice remained low.  
"Of course," she replied, almost immediately, "if you need me to."  
"Good," he nodded curtly, "I'm going to need you for the next twelve hours, maybe longer."


	12. Sophia's First Deductions

Sherlock Holmes worked wordlessly, examining the trainers with a level of concentration Sophia had only experienced a handful of times. He worked with the shoes carefully, peering at them at every angle humanly possible. He used a very specific took Sophia didn't know the name of to dig out some mud from the treads in the soles before placing them in a petri dish. He then moved to a bench, sitting down without speaking a word. Sophia sat across from him, chin resting in the palm of her hand. Every now and then again, Sherlock's eyes would wander to the computer screen and then at the girl parallel to him.

It was easy enough for him to figure out what she was thinking about, but he didn't press the matter. But in Sophia's mind, she continued to think about the woman on the phone. She could only imagine what the woman meant when she said she would be 'naughty'. She anxiously jiggled her leg against the bar of the stool she was sitting on, trying to ease her racing brain. John wandered up and down the lab, arms crossed as his face was scrunched in thought. 

"So, who d'you suppose it was?"

There was a shrill sound of a text alert; one Sherlock ignored completely.

"Hmm?" the detective hummed.  
"The woman on the phone," John clarified, "the crying woman."  
"Oh, she doesn't matter," Sherlock said dismissively, "she's just a hostage. No lead there."  
"For God's sake, Sherlock," Sophia cut in, squinting at Sherlock, "he wasn't thinking about _leads_."  
"Neither of you are going to be much use to her."

Sophia stayed frozen, staring in disbelief at how _cold_ Sherlock had become. She swallowed hard, tapping her fingers against the smooth table.

"Are they _trying_ to trace it, trace the call?"  
"The bomber's too smart for that."

There was another shrill alert, and Sherlock still had yet to waver.

"Pass me my phone."

John and Sophia looked around the room, trying to spot the device. 

"Where is it?" Sophia asked.  
"Jacket."

John's body became rigid in disbelief, sending a glance Sophia's way. She bit back her smile as she watched John march stiffly around the table, slamming one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to rummage around his blazer pocket.

" _Careful_." Sherlock said angrily through gritted teeth.

John did everything in his power to hold back his anger as he held Sherlock's phone in his pocket. 

"Text from your brother."  
"Delete it." Sherlock quickly said.  
"Delete it?" Sophia repeated.  
"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."  
"Well," John eyed the message, "Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

Sherlock raised his head in exasperation, shaking it softly.

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"  
"His what?" Sophia sighed tiredly.   
"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look," Sherlock looked at Sophia briefly, "Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting." his eyes went back to being trained in the microscope.  
"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die." Sophia said softly, her eyes trying to get _something_ through to the man.  
"What for?" he looked back at her, as if nothing was going to change him, "This hospital's full of people dying, _Sophia_. Why don't you go and cry by _their_ bedside and see what good it does them?"

There was a silence that followed, but Sherlock didn't catch the way Sophia look at him. Her lips were slightly parted in shock, and she was sure she would stay stuck like that. Sherlock went back to looking through the lenses, and Sophia did nothing but stare at her blurry reflection on the table. Suddenly, the computer began to beep, cutting the thick silence.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed delightedly.

Molly Hooper entered the room, wearing a kind smile. Sophia had met Molly only briefly once; she was a short woman with rippling long dirty blonde hair. She was a kind woman, at least, that's what Sophia had remembered from John's stories. 

"Any luck?" she approached the bench.  
"Oh, yes!" Sherlock replied triumphantly. 

Molly approached the lab bench, and there was something stirring in Sophia's chest that she couldn't fully name. But there was something she didn't like about Molly and Sherlock being so close. The door suddenly opened and a man stood in the doorway, nervously rubbing his palms on his slacks. Sophia eyed him, taking in every attribute. He looked to be in his thirties, wearing only slacks and a tee shirt. 

"Oh, sorry. I didn't..."  
"Jim!" Molly greeted happily, "Hi!" the man named Jim turned to push past the door but Molly beckoned for him, "Come in! Come in!"

Sherlock eyed Molly, his mind wandering before focusing back on the microscope. Jim sauntered into the room, his eyes only staying on Sherlock. Briefly, he would glance at Sophia, and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of her stomach.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced, making Jim smile widely, "and, uh," she gestured to John and Sophia, "sorry."  
"John Watson, hi."  
"Hi." Jim waved.  
"And I'm Sophia Addair," she gave a halfhearted wave, "pleasure."

It was almost like Jim wasn't even _interested_ about Sophia or John, his eyes stayed trained on Sherlock's back. He was practically drooling, gazing admiringly at the man who didn't even seem to care that he was there.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes," he stepped closer to Sherlock, forcibly pushing John out of the way discreetly, "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"  
"Jim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly explained, "that's how we met. Office romance."

Molly and Jim giggled to themselves. Sherlock briefly glanced at Jim now, only sparing him half a glance before turning back to his work. 

"Gay."

Molly's smile almost immediately faded from her lips. Sophia knew that everyone in the room had heard Sherlock, and she almost felt embarrassed _for_ Molly.

"Sorry, what?"  
"Nothing," Sherlock finally registered what he had said, and he gave a false smile, "um, hey."  
"Hey," lowering his hand, Jim knocked down a set of metal dishes, "sorry! Sorry!"

Sophia put her forehead in the palm of her head, John nearly face-palming. Sherlock's face was etched with irritation as he watched Jim scramble to pick up his mess.

"Well," he scratched his arm awkwardly as he wandered back towards Molly, "I'd better be off. I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"  
"Yea." Molly nodded excitedly.  
"Bye." Jim placed his hand on the small of her back.  
"Bye." she whispered softly.  
"It was nice to meet you." Jim said to Sherlock.

But the detective didn't speak a word. 

"You too." Sophia said in an attempt to break the awkward silence.

Slowly and awkward enough, Jim finally left the room. Sophia looked up, looking at John with a tired gleam. Molly waited for the door to close before turning to look at Sherlock.

"What d'you mean _gay_? We're together."  
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," Sherlock looked across to her, "you've put on three pounds since I last saw you."  
"Two and a half." Molly said defensively.  
"Nuh, three."  
"Sherlock, _please_." Sophia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.  
"He's _not_ gay." Molly countered angrily, "Why'd you have to spoil," she took a deep inhale, "he's _not_."  
"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock snorted.   
"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John inquired, " _I_ put product in my hair."  
"You _wash_ your hair," Sherlock retorted, "there's a difference. No; tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's this underwear."

Sophia knew she shouldn't ask the question she was thinking, but she just _had_ to.

"His underwear?" she furrowed her eyebrows.  
"Visible above the waistline, _very_ visible; very particular brand," Sherlock reached underneath the metal dish Jim had dropped as he turned to Molly, "that, plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here," he displayed a small piece of paper, "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stared at the detective before running out of the room. Sophia couldn't help but feel sorry for Molly, noticing how the poor woman had tears in her eyes before she left. She outwardly sighed, shaking her head as her hair fell onto her shoulders again. 

"Charming, well done." Sophia mumbled, pushing herself up from her stool to join John's side.  
"Just saving her time," Sherlock looked surprised by Molly's reaction, "isn't that kinder?"  
" _Kinder_? No, no, Sherlock," John shook his head, " _that_ wasn't kind."

Sherlock huffed as he placed Jim's paper down on the table. Carefully, he moved the trainers towards the two, placing his hands in his lap.

"Go on, then."  
"Mm?" Sophia hummed.  
"You know what I do. Off you go."

He folded his hands expectantly, as if John and Sherlock were going to just bat off deductions like he had done. If Sophia didn't know any better, she would've laughed in the detective's face. 

"No." John answered.  
"Go on." Sherlock urged.  
"We're not gonna stand here so you can humiliate us while we try and disseminate-..."  
"An outside eye," Sherlock interrupted, "a second opinion. It's very useful to me."  
"Yea, right." Sophia snorted.  
" _Really_."

The three were locked in a staring contest, neither one quite willing to look away. Sophia was the first, rolling her eyes as her shoulders slumped.

"Fine, I'll have a go," she took a deep breath as she picked up one of the shoes, staring at the other on the table, "I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes," she shook her head softly, "trainers."  
"Good." Sherlock looked away, working on his phone.  
"Um," she bit her bottom lip, "they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new," she looked closely, "except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while," she heard Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, "uh, they're very eighties - probably one of those retro designs."  
"You're on _sparkling_ form, what else?"   
"Well, they're quite big, so a man's, d'you think, John?" the older man hummed in agreement.  
"But?"

Sherlock waited for an answer, but Sophia simply handed the shoe to John. The army doctor looked inside the trainers, noticing the blue smudges on the side.

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."  
"Excellent," Sherlock looked proudly at his friends, "what else?"

John and Sophia both examined the shoes one last time, trying not to disappoint the genius next to them. 

"Um," John did one last once-over before placing the shoe down on the table, "that's it."  
"That's it?" Sherlock questioned, asking to just be sure.  
"How'd we do?" Sophia peeked behind John's shoulder.  
"Well," Sherlock nodded, giving Sophia a soft and almost friendly smile, " _really_ well," he paused momentarily, "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but um, you know..." he trailed off.  
"Alright Einstein," Sophia crossed her arms as she sauntered over to Sherlock's left, leaning against the bench expectantly, "tell us what we missed, since you're so brilliant."

Sherlock locked eyes with Sophia, watching as her eyes dared him to continue. Without even looking at John, he raised his hand for John to place the shoe in his hand. John did so, sighing as he watched Sherlock closely look at the shoe.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored," he began, his deductions flying from his lips, "changed the laces three, no, _four_ times," Sophia rolled her eyes, her head dropping as John lowered his head in despair, "even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."  
"Twenty years?" Sophia asked in disbelief.  
"They're not retro, they're original," he showed the two a picture of the shoes on his phone, "limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."  
"But there's still mud on them. They look _new_." John stated.  
"Someone's kept them that way," Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the trainers, "quite a bit of mud cakes on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."  
"How do you know?"   
"Pollen," he nodded towards the computer screen, "clear as a map reference to me."  
" _Of course_." 

Sophia ran her fingers through her hair, sighing. 

"South of the river, too," Sherlock continued, "so, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."  
"So what happened to him?"  
"Something bad," he paused, "he _loved_ those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So," he inhaled sharply, "a child with big feet gets-..." he trailed off, staring ahead of himself, " _oh_."

Sophia turned around, trying to see what Sherlock was looking at in the lab.

"What?" she inquired.  
"Carl Powers." Sherlock said softly.  
"Sorry, who?"  
"Carl Powers, John." Sherlock repeated.  
"What is it?"  
"It's where I began," Sherlock swiftly stood up, reaching for his Belstaff, "we need to go, _now_."

He scrambled to grab the shoes and leave the lab, John and Sophia hanging back for only a moment. They watched as the detective made a B-line for the door, the two sharing very knowing looks.

"I really hate when he does that," Sophia whispered to her friend as she reached for her own coat, "leading us on like that."  
"Yea, get in line."

Sophia and John laughed quietly as they rushed to catch up with Sherlock, exiting the lab. 


	13. The Carl Powers Conundrum

"So," Sophia leaned back against the seat of the taxi, "are you going to explain what _exactly_ is going on?"  
"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid - champion swimmer - came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament," Sherlock explained, looking between Sophia and John, "drowned in the pool. Tragic accident."

He displayed an image of a newspaper on his phone, specifically the front page of the investigation.

"Neither of you would remember it. Why should you? You weren't even in London at the time." he addressed Sophia.  
"But _you_ remember." Sophia pointed out.  
"Yes."  
"Something fishy about it?" John questioned.  
"Nobody thought so," Sherlock replied, "nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."  
"Started young, didn't you?" Sophia mused.  
"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong," he tapped his finger against his leg, "something I couldn't get out of my head."  
"And what was that?"  
"His shoes."   
"What about them?"  
"They weren't there," Sherlock's eyes locked with Sophia's, "I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes," he picked up a bag containing the trainers, "until now."

* * *

Sherlock flipped and turned through old newspaper clippings, eyes scanning for any crucial pieces of information he might've missed. Sophia sat across from him, sitting as still as humanly possible so that she wouldn't disturb his process. They sat enclosed in the kitchen of 221B, the glass sliding door completely shut. On the other side, however, Sophia could make out the silhouette of John pacing back and forth. He had been out there for a while, also trying not to disturb the brilliant consulting detective. But suddenly he stopped, slowly sliding the door open.

"Can I help?"

Sherlock didn't answer, like he didn't even hear the question.

"I want to help," John said again, "there's only five hours left."

The sound of a text alert came from John's pocket. He quickly fished out his mobile and stared at the screen, his eyebrows furrowing in curiosity.

"It's your brother. He's texting me now," he frowned at his phone, "how does he know my number?"  
"Must be a root canal." Sherlock said thoughtfully as he continued to flip through his papers.  
"Look, he did say 'national importance'."

Sherlock snorted, as if John had said the funniest joke he had heard in his life. 

"How quaint."  
"What is?" John questioned.  
" _You_ are," Sherlock pointedly said, "Queen and country."  
"You can't just ignore it." John said sternly.  
"I'm not ignoring it," Sherlock answered, "putting my best man onto it right now."  
"Right. Good," he crossed his arms over his chest, only to look at Sherlock with a puzzled glance, "who's that?"  
"You," Sherlock answered, "off you go."

Sophia was sure John wanted to argue, but he simply gave up the argument before it could even begin. The man mumbled something underneath his breath before he barreled up the stairs into his room. Sophia still sat quietly, now looking at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"D'you want me to go with him?"  
"Nope," Sherlock answered simply, "I need your help right here, thanks."  
"But what _am_ I helping you with?" she quirked her head to the side, "I've been sitting here with you for hours and I haven't done a single thing. Wouldn't I be more useful doing something of actual importance?"  
"Your presence helps me think," Sherlock answered almost too quickly, "come sit by me, Sophia."

There was something so _innocent_ about Sherlock's request for her to sit with him, like it was something so urgent. Her smile warmed as she stood up, smoothing down her skirt as she took a seat on his left. They sat in silence again, the sound of John mumbling as he exited the flat dulled into the background. Sophia found herself absentmindedly tapping against the kitchen table, her fingers rhythmically thumping out a tune she had made up in her head.

"What're you thinking about?" Sherlock questioned, eyes trained on the papers.  
"Whoever blew up the flat last night," she began slowly, fingers still thumping, "they obviously did it for a reason; most likely to get your attention. What do you suppose they want?"  
"I don't know."

Sophia sighed. She wanted to know _why_ someone would go through all the trouble of getting Sherlock's attention, it simply didn't make sense. The pace of her fingers only seemed to increase, and soon enough it was the only sound you could hear. Without a moment of hesitation, Sherlock grasped Sophia's hand in his own, stopping her tapping. Sherlock didn't seem fazed by the action; Sophia, on the other hand, looked as though someone had hit her over the head with a blunt object. She stared at their intertwined hands like they were a diamond or jewel of high value. 

"Your tapping is throwing me off," Sherlock stated in a pointed tone, "and it also soothes anxiety. I can't work if my companion is tapping away like an idiot."

Somewhere in that statement, Sophia knew, there was a soothing tone. She didn't argue, didn't snatch her hand away. Surprisingly enough, she found herself completely relaxing holding his hand. His thumb, almost as if he didn't even know, rubbed small circles in the top of her hand. She smiled, a smile that had so much warmth and happiness it would've made anyone sick. But like most things, Sherlock missed the complete tenderness Sophia offered. So, without another word, Sophia relished in the silence of 221B and watched the brilliant man continue his work.

* * *

Sophia stood by the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of tea in hand as she stared at Sherlock. He was now sitting at a side table, eyes darting from his microscope to his papers. The silence and sitting had been too much for Sophia, so she had planned on making some tea for them while he worked. But all Sherlock did was dismiss her as he focused. Suddenly though, as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the kitchen, the man looked up.

"Poison." he said under his breath.  
"What are you going on about?" the landlady questioned.  
"Clostridium botulinum!" the man shouted as his hands slammed onto the table. 

Mrs. Hudson practically fled the kitchen, scurrying off downstairs. John now stood in the doorway, tie practically loosely hanging from his neck as he looked at Sherlock and Sophia. 

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" John stared blankly at Sherlock, much to Sophia's amusement, "Carl Powers!"  
"Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?"  
"Remember the shoes?" Sherlock stood from his chair, stalking over to the laces of the trainers, "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medicine. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."  
"Hang on," Sophia stepped in, still holding her cup of tea, "how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"  
"It's virtually undetectable," Sherlock walked round the table to his laptop, "nobody would have been looking for it," he began typing feverishly, "but there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet," he pointed to the laces hanging by the wall before straightening up, "that's why they had to go."

Sophia rushed to join Sherlock's side, staring at the messages that flashed on the screen. They read:

**FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker Street.**

Sophia stood straight, staring between John and Sherlock.

"So how do we let the bomber know..."  
"Get his attention," Sherlock looked at his watch, "stop the clock."  
"The killer kept the shoes all these years." Sophia sighed heavily.  
"Yes," Sherlock now looked to Sophia, "meaning..."  
"He's our bomber."

Almost abruptly, the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock practically jumped to it, quickly answering and setting it on speaker. 

"Well done, you," the woman said breathlessly, "come and get me."  
"Where _are_ you?" Sherlock asked loudly and clearly, "Tell us where you are."

* * *

"Why a detective?"

The question almost caught Sherlock off guard, but in his defense, he was entirely too focused on his thoughts to be paying attention to the outside world. John had gone to bed about an hour or so ago, leaving Sherlock and Sophia sitting in the living room. He had lit the fireplace, the crackling noise of the flames offering some sound to the otherwise silent flat. She glanced from her mug to her friend, watching as he parted his lips just slightly.

"Sorry," she shook her head, like she was embarrassed for even asking, "I don't mean to pry. I'm just curious."  
"Naturally," Sherlock said lowly, "I do find you'll find the answer rather boring, though."  
"Something 'boring' about _you_? I don't think that's even possible."

The two laughed behind their hands so they wouldn't wake John or the neighbors. She curled in John's chair, a throw blanket wrapped around her legs to keep herself warm. 

"I'm serious," she tilted her head to the side, "what made the great Sherlock Holmes want to be a detective?"

Sherlock pondered the question for a few moments, tapping his fingers together before looking back at the young author.

"Puzzles," Sherlock answered simply, "they always used to fascinate me as a boy. I was always able to solve them quickly enough, and as I grew up, I satisfied my need for puzzles with mysteries. It just so happened that someone had told me a long time ago that I would make a good detective."  
"But you never take the credit," Sophia leaned back against the chair, "you call yourself a 'consulting' detective. When the mysteries are solved and done, no one even knows you _helped_. Why d'you do it?"  
"Because it doesn't matter to me who takes credit," Sherlock said, his voice slow and even, "as long as they get solved."

His answer made her smile, a sort of kind and soft smile that seemed so unreal that he might've dreamt it. Sophia slowly stood, placing the blanket back down on the chair before standing in front of Sherlock.

"You really are brilliant, Mister Holmes," she leaned down, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek, "goodnight."

Sherlock would never admit it to himself, nor would he entertain the memory, but his cheeks dared to tint themselves pink. He listened as her stairs creaked as she ventured back up the stairs, and he found himself smiling as he returned to his thoughts. 


	14. Janus Cars

Sophia was quiet the next morning.

She found herself sitting alone in her flat, sipping boredly at her coffee while her thoughts began to run away from her. Of course, she couldn't stop thinking about the events that had transpired the day before. It couldn't have been real, nothing about her interactions were plausible in any sense. Her fingertips brushed against the bandage on her cheek, and she slumped in her chair. There was a fear in her bones that she couldn't shake, no matter how badly she wanted it to go. She was too lost in her own thoughts to even realize that her front door opened, Sherlock standing there like a statue. It took him knocking on the door to grab her attention, and she visibly jumped as she turned around to look at the man staring back at her.

"How are you feeling?"

The question left Sophia stumped. _How_ was she feeling? She was scared, she knew that. But there was something else that she couldn't name even if she wanted to. She placed her mug down on the table, running her palms along her jeans. Sherlock could read the uneasiness that plagued Sophia like she was an open book, but he didn't share any of the deductions he had come up with. He watched her movements, all slow and unsure of what to do next. Sophia was smart; she was always able to rationalize things so that it would make sense. It was the instinct that made her want to be an author, to understand things and be able to explain. But everything happening, it was all a mystery to her. 

"What if he comes after me?"

Fear. The most natural human emotion she could feel. Sherlock really couldn't blame her; she had been in an explosion, and now she was being thrown into playing a game with some criminal after Sherlock. Who's to say he _wouldn't_ come after Sophia next? She stood, placing her mug down in the sink before gripping the counter tightly.

"What if he straps me with bombs next? What am I supposed to do?"  
"He won't," Sherlock was quick to try and ease Sophia, something that even shocked _him_ , "he won't come near you as long as you're with me."  
"You sound oddly sure, Sherlock."

Sophia was the one that looked up, staring into Sherlock's eyes with a glimmer of hope. He believed that statement: that he would keep Sophia safe as long as he needed to. She was under his duty of care, and it was his job to keep her safe. With hesitance, Sophia slowly intertwined their fingers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. All his life, Sherlock detested human contact. Hell, sometimes he didn't even want his _family_ touching him. But with Sophia, he didn't mind at all. She smiled, wrapping her arm around Sherlock's bicep with such a gentleness that it seemed off for Sherlock. Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile, one that gave Sophia an ease that she didn't know was possible. 

"Will you be joining us today? Lestrade wants us at Scotland Yard as soon as possible."  
"Of course," Sophia nodded, staring up at him with those gleaming eyes of crystal, "I'll follow wherever you lead."

It didn't take much convincing for Sophia to follow behind Sherlock. She rushed into her room, grabbing her shoes and swinging her jacket onto her shoulders. Sherlock gave a smile again, and he took her hand as he whisked her out the door. 

* * *

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade began, sitting behind his desk, "two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house."

Sophia watched as Sherlock slowly stepped towards Lestrade's desk, standing by the window with her arms crossed across her chest.

"Told her to phone _you_ ," he placed a pager on the desk, "she had to read from his pager."  
"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off."  
"Or if you hadn't solved the case." John commented as he stared at the pager.   
"Oh," Sherlock spoke softly, more so to himself than the people in the office, " _elegant_."

A stillness fell amongst the room. John turned, looking at Sherlock's back.

"'Elegant'?" John questioned.  
"But what was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?"  
"Oh," Sherlock mused, staring out at the main office, "I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored."

Sophia paused, staring at her feet as she thought. She remembered the events of the night two days ago; the explosion, the glass, the pieces of wood that surrounded her when she fell. Just then, the phone went off. Sherlock retrieved it from his pocket, holding the pink cell phone now sitting in the palm of his hand. Slowly, he switched the phone on, everyone waiting silently.

"You have one new message."

Four pips followed: three short and one long. 

"Four pips." Sophia stated.  
"First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second."

He showed the picture to the three. It was a photograph of a car, the make and number plate clearly visible. Sophia loomed behind Sherlock's side, staring at the picture.

"It's abandoned, isn't it?" she questioned, earning a nod from Sherlock.  
"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade replied, reaching for his own phone on the desk.  
"Freak," Donovan entered the office, holding a phone in hand, "it's for you."

Sophia turned, watching as Sherlock slowly approached the woman and took the phone from her. He exited the office, entering the main office area. John and Sophia shared a glance before John nodded, allowing her to follow behind the detective. 

"Hello?" Sherlock spoke lowly.  
"It's okay that you've gone to the police."

It was a man, Sherlock could tell immediately. He was frightened, that was also clear to hear. Sophia's eyebrows furrowed together as she stepped towards Sherlock, looking up at him with concern. 

"Who is this? Is this you again?"   
"But don't rely on them," the man tearfully spoke, "clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me," there was a pause, "so I stopped him laughing."  
"And you've stolen another voice, I presume."  
"This is about you and me," the man spoke again, "and now you've brought little Sophia into it as well," the man on the other end chuckled, "I might have to meet her myself. She is a pretty one."  
"Keep her out of this. She has nothing to do with you," Sherlock hissed, "who _are_ you? What's that noise?"  
"The sound of life, Sherlock," the man replied, "but don't worry...I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight."

The line went dead, and Sherlock tensed. Carefully, Sophia laced their fingers together, squeezing his hand tightly. It was almost like he snapped out of his own fury and he looked down at Sophia, noticing how visibly worried she was about him. At that moment, Lestrade exited his own office, striding out to retrieve Sherlock and Sophia.

"We've found it."

But Sophia and Sherlock stood frozen, even after Lestrade and John had exited the Yard. Sherlock stayed silent, his mind running on it's own. Sophia didn't loosen her grip on Sherlock's hand, holding it as if he was going to protect her forever. She didn't know what the man had said to Sherlock, but it must've been something that made him look so furious. 

"What did he say about me?"

Sherlock looked at Sophia, holding her hand like she was tethering him to Earth. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and when they locked eyes, there was a trust that neither needed to question.

"What I said before, I meant it," his voice was low and full of an emotion that seemed unnatural, "he won't get to you; not if I have a say in the matter."

And Sophia knew he meant it; knew that Sherlock would do anything in his power to keep her safe. She gave that smile again, that warm and understanding smile she wore often. With a tight hold on her hand, the two exited the Yard, rushing to keep up with Lestrade and John.

* * *

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade told the trio, consulting his notes, "banker of some kind; city boy. Paid in cash."

Sophia followed behind Sherlock, eyeing a woman would was speaking with another police woman. 

"Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived."  
"You're still hanging round him, then." Donovan commented, glancing between John and Sophia.  
"Yea, well..." John began to trail off.   
"Opposites attract, I suppose."  
"No, we're not..."  
"You should get yourself a hobby - stamps maybe. Model trains. Safer."

Sophia glared at the woman again, making it almost completely obvious that she hated her. Sherlock leaned inside the car, staring at the large amount of blood that was now smeared over the front seats. Sophia stood on the other side of the car, bending down to watch him. She motioned for the glove box, earning an impressed grin from the detective.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out."

Sherlock rummaged around the glove box for a moment, retrieving a small business card. He closed the lid and stood, Sophia mirroring his movements.

"No body."  
"Not yet." Donovan replied pointedly.  
"Get a sample sent to the lab."

Sophia rejoined Sherlock's side, striding alongside him as they began to approach the woman from earlier: the one speaking with the police. 

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock addressed her.

The woman turned, eyes still filled with tears. 

"Yes," she glanced at the three, "sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."  
"No," Sophia shook her head, holding her hand out as it waved, "we're not from the police; we're..."  
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock extended his hand out to Mrs. Monkford, his voice suddenly tearful and tremulous, "very old friend of your husband's. We, um," he swallowed hard, feigning his tears, "we grew up together."  
"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you."  
"Oh, he _must_ have done. This is...this is horrible, isn't it?" it took everything in Sophia not to burst out laughing, and John's face was becoming very unsuccessful in staying neutral, "I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian: not a car in the world."  
"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who _are_ you?"  
"Really strange that he hired a car," a few fake tears rolled down his cheeks, "why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"  
"No, it _isn't_. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."  
"Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!"  
"No it wasn't." Mrs. Monkford retorted forcefully.  
"Wasn't it?" Sherlock automatically dropped his persona, his eyes staring at the woman intensely, "Interesting."

He turned on his heel, leaving the woman almost _more_ distraught than how he found her. Sophia furrowed her eyebrows together as she jogged to keep up with Sherlock. In the background, the trio could hear Mrs. Monkford talking to an _actual_ police officer, frantically questioning about them.

"Why did you lie to her?" John questioned as they ducked underneath the police tape.  
"People don't like telling you things," Sherlock started, slipping off his gloves to wipe the tears from underneath his eyes, "but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"  
"Sorry, what?"  
"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in: bit premature - they've only just found the car."  
"You think she murdered her husband?" Sophia tested, raising her eyebrow.  
"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make."  
"I see," Sophia nodded along slowly, "no, I don't. What am I seeing?"

The trio passed by Donovan, the woman staring down John and Sophia like it was her mission.

"Fishing! Try fishing!" she hesitated for moment, "Maybe knitting for you!"

Sophia rolled her eyes as she slipped her arm in Sherlock's, linking them together.

"So, where now?" she asked, looking up at Sherlock.  
"Janus Cars," Sherlock reached into his pocket, handing John the business card, "just found this in the glove compartment."


	15. I Am On Fire!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"Can't see how I can help you gentlemen," Mister Ewert sheepishly eyed Sophia who sat beside John, "and lady."  
"Mister Munkford hired a car from you yesterday." John said, eyeing the man that sat behind the desk.  
"Yea. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8, wouldn't mind one of them myself."

Sherlock walked to the other side of the desk, standing behind Ewert. 

"Is that one?" the detective pointed to one of the pictures on the forecourt. 

Sophia was the one that noticed Sherlock look closely at Ewert's neck, almost like he was mentally taking notes.

"No, they're all Jags," Ewert shook his head, "yea, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"  
"But surely _you_ can afford one - a Mazda, I mean?"  
"Yea, it's a fair point," Ewert scratched the top of his left arm with his right hand, "but you know how it is: it's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice all-sorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

Sophia watched Sherlock look at Ewert, his eyes intensely boring into his head. Slowly, he walked towards the other side of the desk, each movement careful. 

"But you didn't know Mister Monkford?" Sophia questioned.  
"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him; poor sod."  
"Nice holiday, Mister Ewert?"  
"Eh?"   
"You've been away, haven't you?"  
"Oh, the-the," he gestured his tanned face, his words rummaged together, "no, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though: bit of sun."  
"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?"  
"What?"  
"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," he held out a bank note, "I'm _gasping_."

Sophia and John both shared a glance before looking back at Sherlock, squinting disapprovingly. 

"No, sorry."  
"Oh well," Sherlock exhaled through his nose, "thank you very much for your time, Mister Ewert," he sent a glance to the duo, indicating for them to follow, "you've been _very_ helpful. Come on, you two."

Sophia and John gathered their things, quickly following behind Sherlock. 

"I didn't know he smoked." Sophia whispered to John, carefully trying to keep her words hushed.  
"He's been trying to quit for ages," John whispered back before straightening his back, "I've got change if you still want to..."  
"Nicotine patches, remember?" Sherlock patted his upper left arm, "I'm doing well."  
"So what was _that_ about?"  
"I needed to look inside his wallet."  
"Why?"  
"Mister Ewert's a liar."

Sophia's lip turned upward as she rushed to wrap her arms around Sherlock's bicep, leaning in close so that their words could be secret.

"You asked him if he went on holiday after you looked at his neck, didn't you?"  
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Sherlock tried to hide his smirk, but he let it slip slightly.  
"Yes you do," Sophia smiled proudly, her eyes glimmering, "I'm getting better, yea?"

Sherlock didn't answer her question, and that was perfectly fine for Sophia. And although she didn't see it, and Sherlock would never admit it, he smiled endearingly at the young woman. But behind them, John pretended to completely miss the way the two interacted. It wasn't his business to interject himself in their world, and he was perfectly content with letting them enjoy themselves. 

* * *

Sophia sat on the opposite side of the lab counter, watching as Sherlock worked wordlessly. Each one of his movements were delicate and careful, his hand slowly gripping the dropper and moving it over a small dish. The blood inside began to fizz, making Sophia loom over the bench. As Sherlock stood straight, the pink phone began to ring. Sophia watched as Sherlock reached for the phone, carefully bringing it to his ear.

"Hello?"  
"The clue's in the name," the tearful man spoke, "Janus Cars."  
"Why would you be giving me a clue?"   
"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were _made_ for each other, Sherlock."  
"Then talk to me in your own voice." Sherlock said softly.  
"Patience."

The line went dead once again. Sherlock stared thoughtfully into the distance, leaving Sophia to her own thoughts. Sherlock then lifted the fizzing dish, grinning proudly at his work. He earned a small chuckle from Sophia, her chin falling in the palm of her hand.

"Is there anything you _can't_ do, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock questioned; John, Lestrade, Sophia and himself surrounding the car in question.  
"How much? About a pint." Lestrade answered.  
"Not 'about'. _Exactly_ a pint," Sherlock corrected, "that was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen."  
"Frozen?"  
"There are clear signs," Sophia interjected, remembering the fizzing from the lab, " _I_ think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."  
" _Who_ did?"  
"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name."  
"The god with two faces." John began piecing it together.  
"Exactly," Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, "they provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem - money troubles, bad marriage, whatever - Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble -financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..."  
"So where is he?"  
"Colombia." Sherlock closed the door.

Lestrade and John stared at Sherlock in disbelief, except for Sophia. For the first time since she had started accompanying Sherlock, she was finally able to _keep up_ with the consulting detective.

" _Colombia_?"  
"Mister Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet," Sherlock began to explain again, "quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see the tan line clearly."

Sophia grinned, recalling the conversation they had in the car shop. 

"No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."  
"His arm?"  
"Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding," he earned another grin from Sophia, "why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."  
"Mrs. Monkford?" John tested.  
"Oh yes, she's in on it too," Sherlock said proudly, "now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best. _We_ need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

He turned, leading John and Sophia out of the car park they stood in. Sophia slipped her arm around Sherlock's bicep yet again with an amazed smile etching itself on her face.

"I am on _fire_!" Sherlock exclaimed as he clenched his fists triumphantly at his side.

* * *

Night had fallen, the trio sitting bundled in their coats as they sat at the desk by the window. Sophia sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair, peering over Sherlock's shoulder to watch him type.

 **Congratulations** **to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.**

Not even a moment later, the pink phone began to ring again. Sherlock carefully reached forward, turning the phone on speaker.

"He says you can come and fetch me," the man spoke tearfully, "help. Help me, please."

Sherlock looked up from his computer screen, giving a wide smile to Sophia and John. There was a feeling Sophia couldn't explain in her heart, but she knew she was finally doing something _good_. She was helping this incredible man save people, people who otherwise would've been blown to bits had it not been for Sherlock's intelligence. After a few moments, John retired to his room, leaving the two alone yet again. 

"You're getting better." Sherlock commented, shutting his laptop.  
"You think so?"  
"I do," Sherlock replied, "your deductions are becoming more insightful. Soon enough, you'll be just as good as me."  
"Very funny, Sherlock," Sophia giggled, pushing herself up from the chair, "I think I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to need all the energy I can if we're going to continue this."

She made her way to the doorway, pausing for a moment. With a hand on the wood, she turned back to the detective with a delicate smile.

"I've only gotten good because I've had a good friend to help me," she paused, trying to hide the blush in her cheeks, "goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well."  
"Sleep well," Sherlock mirrored her smile, "goodnight, Sophia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken me over a month to update! The holidays at work completely burnt me out and I needed to find my love for Sherlock once again. Hopefully I should be updating regularly soon, again. Thank you for all the love on this story!


	16. Connie Prince's Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the days pass and the trials of the mystery bomber become more intense, Sherlock and Sophia's friendship begins to grow closer and closer.

"That cut of yours seems to be healing up nicely," John stated as he carefully removed the large bandage, "probably won't even leave a scar."

Sophia hummed in reassurance as stood from her seat on the coffee table. She had been lucky, she knew that much. The cuts and scratches on her knuckles had almost fully healed, finally able to walk around with out bandages wrapped around her hands. Sherlock emerged from his room not a moment later, grinning at his two friends.

"Breakfast?"  
"Love some." John answered, wiping his hands on his trousers.  
"Joining us, Sophia?"  
"Course."

* * *

Sherlock, John and Sophia sat at one of the tables inside a small café; one on the far side against the wall. Sophia sat beside John, practically scarfing down the food on their plates. Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers against the table, eyeing the pink phone in anticipation.

"Feeling better?" the detective questioned.  
"Mm," John hummed, "you realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?" he shoveled another forkful of food as he looked thoughtfully at Sherlock, "Has it occurred to you...?"  
"Probably." Sherlock answered quickly.  
"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the flat; the dead kid's shoes - it's all meant for you."  
"Yes," Sherlock smiled slightly, "I know."  
"It is him, then? Moriarty?"  
"Perhaps."

Sophia raised her eyebrow, slowing her eating for just a minute.

"'Moriarty'? Who's he?" she turned her head to look at John.  
"Someone very dangerous," John answered, "he's got a special fascination with Sherlock."

Before Sophia could question any further, the pink phone beeped with a message alert. Sherlock switched it on, the phone sounding off two pips followed by one longer tone. Sophia leaned forward to examine the picture: it was a middle-aged woman, smiling brightly at the camera.

"That could be anybody."  
"Well, it _could_ be, yea. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."  
"How do you mean?"  
"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly."

The two watched as John stood from the table, weaving between the chairs before stopping in front of the counter. He picked up the remote control, switching on the television hung on the wall. He changed the channel twice before stopping on a specific channel, watching the woman from the picture speak. She was gesturing to someone offscreen, her smile spreading across the entirety of her lower face. The phone began to ring, and Sherlock carefully picked up the device. 

"Hello?" his voice remained low.  
"This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry," there was a pause, "she's blind. This is...a funny one," Sophia knitted her eyebrows together as John made his way back over, "I'll give you...twelve hours."

John and Sophia glanced at one another before their eyes landed on Sherlock once again.

"Why are you doing this?"  
"I like...to watch you...dance."

The line went dead, and Sherlock simply shook his head. It was like her appetite completely left her body, her stomach becoming a black hole. Whoever this Moriarty character was, he was someone Sophia knew she should be afraid of. The trio looked back at the screen, staring a picture of the woman who had been in the picture. The name flashed across the screen in bold letters: **Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48.**

* * *

"Connie Prince," Lestrade started, reading from a file clutched in his hand, "fifty four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?"  
"No."  
"Very popular. She was going places."  
"Not anymore. So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound," the trio stared at the deep cut on the webbing between her right thumb and index finger, "tetanus bacteria entered the bloodstream - good night, Vienna."  
"I suppose." John agreed.  
"Something's wrong with this picture."

Lestrade and Sophia quirked their heads towards the detective, raising their eyebrow.

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong."

Sophia, Lestrade and John watched as Sherlock examined the body. He narrowed his eyes, bending down to look closer along Connie's right arm. There were several scratches, dried scarlet blood now harsh against the pale skin. He moved towards her face, noticing small pinpricks on her forehead just above her nose.

"John?" the retired army doctor hummed, "The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?"  
"Yea." John nodded.  
"But the wound's clean - _very_ clean, and fresh."

Sherlock looked up, eyes flickering while he worked his way through. He then straightened, clicking his magnifier closed.

"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"  
"Eight, ten days," Sherlock quirked a one-sided grin and turned to John, waiting for him to catch up, "the cut was made later."  
"After she was dead?" Sophia tested.  
"Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?"

John looked along the body, trying to use everything in him to figure out where Sherlock was going.

"You want to help, right?"  
"Of course."  
"Connie Prince's background; family history, everything. Give me data."  
"Right." John nodded curtly as he left the morgue.   
"D'you want me to go with him?" Sophia gestured towards John.  
"No, I need you with me."

Sophia bit down her smile, watching as Sherlock rounded the table to join her side.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of." Lestrade added, stopping Sherlock from leaving.  
"Is there?" Sherlock questioned casually.  
"Yes. Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber?" Sherlock stopped, his back to the inspector, his eyes a little anxious, "If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"  
"Good Samaritan." Sherlock replied nonchalantly.  
"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"  
" _Bad_ Samaritan." Sophia said.  
"I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen: I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you - but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

There was a pause, Sherlock staring thoughtfully into the distance. A smile grew on Sherlock's lips, one filled with delight that was sort of misplaced.

"Something new," he turned again, leaving Sophia behind momentarily, "come on, Sophia."

The two exited the morgue wordlessly, Sophia following Sherlock closely. In the back of her mind, she continued to think of the man John had mentioned earlier: Moriarty. Judging by the events that had transpired over the past few days, he was someone dangerous. This man had access to information that could destroy people, end their lives right before their eyes. Her worry must've been obvious to read because Sherlock looked back at her, raising his eyebrow in genuine concern.

"Is something bothering you?"  
"It's nothing important," Sophia waved her hand dismissively, "don't worry about me."

Sophia was easy enough for Sherlock to read, every expression and emotion as plain as day. He didn't really _need_ to ask what was bothering the young woman, it was more or less a formality. But the way her bottom lip trembled with hidden anxiety was enough for Sherlock to stop asking. Sophia trusted him, he also knew that much. And if Sophia was _truly_ worried about something, she would come to him when she needed him. He offered his hand for her to take, the only form of comfort he was able to offer her. She took it gently, squeezing his hand once before following in his stride. 

Maybe Moriarty was coming after them, but Sophia knew Sherlock wouldn't let her fall into his hands. It was a silent promise, one Sophia truly believed. 


	17. The Connection

Sherlock worked quietly, pinning multiple newspaper clippings and pictures to the wall behind the sofa. Sophia watched from the sidelines, arms crossed over her chest as she tapped her pointer finger on her bicep. Of course, she had her questions as to _what_ Sherlock was thinking, but she knew better than to interrupt. Sherlock paused, staring at the wall silently.

"There's a connection," Sophia turned to fully look at Sherlock, "isn't there?"  
"There has to be," Sherlock answered, his eyes still glued on the wall, "I just don't know what it is."

To see Sherlock stumped was something Sophia never thought she would witness. Although she had only known Sherlock for a short while, she was almost sure he would _always_ have the answers for _everything_. Sherlock continued pinning things to the wall, occasionally stopping to pace in front of the sofa. Sophia sighed, taking her spot on the edge of Sherlock's chair. She was no use to the detective, this was something he needed to figure out on his own. So, she quietly sat at the side, waiting for when Sherlock requested her assistance.

* * *

Several hours had passed; leaving only about three hours left for Sherlock to solve the puzzle. Sophia was sitting in Sherlock's chair, her legs dangling over the left armrest. Sherlock had added to the wall, almost completely covering it in clippings, pictures and red string. Lestrade stood in front of the sofa, staring at the wall while Sherlock continued to pace; his fingers steepled in front of his lips.

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock whispered under his breath as he continued his nonsensical pacing, "there _must_ be a connection," he paused in front of the wall, standing beside Lestrade, "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago," he gestured to one of the pictures, "the bomber _knew_ him; _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing," he let out an exasperated sigh, "working his way round the world? Showing off?"

The pink phone began to ring again, grabbing Sophia's attention immediately. He slowly raised it before switching on the speaker.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" the woman spoke tearfully, "Joining the...dots. Three hours: boom...boom."

She let out another cry before the line went dead; leaving the three in an unsettling silence. Sherlock went back to his usual position, only sparing one glance to Sophia. She straightened herself on the chair, staring at Sherlock's back. There was an uneasiness in Sophia's stomach that she couldn't ignore, no matter how hard she was trying. There was something about this woman that made Sophia's stomach twist deep inside. But she swallowed hard, squinting at the wall of clippings.

* * *

"Great," Sherlock spoke into his phone, "thank you. Thanks again."

He turned, mumbling down the phone as he approached the fireplace. Mrs. Hudson stood beside Lestrade and Sophia, staring sadly at the picture of Connie Prince. 

"It was a real shame," the landlady spoke, "I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."  
"Colors?" Lestrade questioned.  
"You know," she gestured at the clothes she adorned, "what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."

Sophia giggled behind her hand, eyes catching sight of Sherlock turning back to them. He joined Sophia's side, giving her a wink before focusing his eyes on the wall.

"Who was that?" Sophia nudged him with her elbow.  
"Home Office."  
" _Home Office_?" Lestrade repeated surprised.   
"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favor."

Sophia rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she watched the consulting detective.

"She was a pretty girl," Mrs. Hudson stated, looking at one of the pictures of Connie holding an award of some kind, "but she messed about with herself too much. They _all_ do these days," she looked round at Lestrade, "people can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?" she giggled to herself as she looked at Sherlock, "Did you ever see her show?"  
"Not until now."

He picked up his laptop and opened it, a video beginning to play of one of Connie's episodes of her make-up show. Sophia loomed across Sherlock's shoulder, eyes squinting at the woman and man on the screen.

"You look _pasty_ , love." Connie exclaimed to the man.  
"Ah," the man looked towards the audience, "rained every day but one!"  
"That's the brother. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers." Mrs. Hudson inquired.  
"So I gather," Sherlock said lowly, "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites - indispensable for gossip."  
"Never would I imagine Sherlock Holmes on a fan site." Sophia whispered, earning a nudge from Sherlock: doing his best to hide his own grin.  
"There's really one thing we can do with that ensemble, don't you think, girls?" Connie gestured towards her brother, "Off! Off! Off! Off!"

She slapped her hands on her brothers back as he began to unbutton his shirt. He was grimacing in pain, hiding behind a false smile for his sister. Sophia almost felt bad for Kenny Prince; he was the laughing stock of his sisters show. She looked up at Sherlock, their eyes meeting for just a moment. She gave a half smile before turning her attention back to the video playing on the laptop.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?" Sophia whispered, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock.  
"If you must."  
"This man," she looked out the shattered window of 221B, "Moriarty," his name sounded unfamiliar, _scary_ , "what if he-..."  
"He won't," Sherlock reassured her before she could even finish her sentence, "he won't come near you as long as you stay with me."  
"D'you really believe that, though? He's gotten to three people already and killed one," Sophia exhaled heavily, dropping her head, "what if comes for my family? My sisters? My mum and dad? John said he was dangerous," she gave a nervous laugh as she ran her hand across her arm, "how do I know they won't get hurt?"

The twos eyes met once again that day, and Sherlock noticed the gleam in Sophia's eyes. It was the same sliver of fear she had the day they found Ian Monkford's car; the day Sherlock swore to keep her safe. Discreetly enough, Sherlock slipped his hand in Sophia's, intertwining their fingers together. Sophia met his eyes, watching as he gave a smile that she knew he was hiding from Lestrade. She squeezed his hand, giving a tight lined smile as she continued to look out the window. Sherlock was the one that took his hand away, winking at Sophia before turning back to the wall. His phone began to ring in his pocket, the detective fishing it out of his pocket and holding it to his ear. Sophia watched from her spot, raising her eyebrow as she crossed her arms.

"John," Sherlock stated, pausing for a moment, "I'll remember," he hung up two minutes later, turning to look back at Sophia, "John thinks he's onto something."  
"Do _you_ think he is?" Sophia questioned as she skipped towards him.  
"Perhaps," he winked at the younger woman, "we'll just have to go and see, won't we?" he then looked to Lestrade, tying his scarf around his neck, "I'll be in touch."

Lestrade watched as the duo rushed out of the flat, Sophia absentmindedly linking their hands together once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for over 1K views! I'm so glad everyone is enjoying this story. I'm sorry it takes so long to upload, I want the chapters to be great. 
> 
> This week has been nonstop crazy: I just got out of the hospital and editing has taken a lot longer than expected. But we're getting to the fun parts of the story. Please continue to show love for this story.


	18. So Close To Another Saved

"This is what money can buy?" Sophia admired the large house in front of her, "I should start taking my writing seriously."  
"Oh please," Sherlock wore a grin, "if you want to see a nice house, I should take you to Mycroft's estate. It's easily a palace."

Sophia laughed as she rushed to join Sherlock's side, the duffle bag slapping against her thigh. The duo clambered up the stairs, Sherlock knocking on the door. A man opened the door, looking no older than early thirties. He adorned a well-kept uniform, perfectly pressed and creased.

"Hi, we're with the man that came round about an hour ago?" Sherlock took the lead.  
"We came with the equipment." Sophia followed suit.

The man nodded, stepping out of the way so Sherlock and Sophia could enter. Sophia spared an amused glance to Sherlock as the house boy led them towards the living room. They were meant with John standing in the center along with Kenny Prince, squinting at the two in confusion.

"Ah, Mister Prince, isn't it?"  
"Yes."  
"Very good to meet you."  
"Yes; thank you." Kenny took Sherlock's outstretched his hand.  
"So sorry to hear about..." Sophia began.  
"Yes, yes, very kind."

Sophia raised her eyebrow at Kenny's dismissiveness, a red flag immediately popping up in her mind. Kenny stood in front of the fireplace, fiddling with his hair in the mirror. The trio huddled around the table, rummaging around in the duffle bag they had brought inside.

"You were right," John whispered so that Kenny couldn't hear him, "the bacteria got into her another way."  
"Oh yes?" Sherlock smirked to himself.  
"Yes." John said, affirming his deduction.

Sophia watched Sherlock, waiting for him to confirm John's intuition, but he said nothing.

"Right," Kenny turned to look at the trio, "we all set?"

John nodded his head, looking at Kenny with a determined gleam. Sophia retrieved one of the camera's from the bag, leaving Sherlock with another camera and a flashgun. 

"Can you...?" John jerked his head towards Kenny.  
"Not too close," Kenny outstretched his hand, "I'm raw from crying."

A meow came from the floor, making both Sherlock and Sophia look down. A hairless cat rubbed against Sophia's shin, and it took everything in her to restrain herself from petting it.

"Oh, who's this beautiful baby?" Sophia cooed at the cat.  
"Sekhmet," Kenny beamed, "named after the Egyptian goddess."  
"How nice," Sherlock feigned interest, "was she Connie's?"  
"Yes," he bent down, scooping the animal into his arms, "little present from yours truly."

Sophia raised her eyebrow, earning a frustrated sigh from John.

"Sherlock? Uh, light reading?"  
"Oh, um," Sherlock lifted the flashgun, firing right in front of Kenny's face, "two point eight."  
"Bloody hell," Kenny pressed his eyes together, "what do you think you're playing at?"

Sherlock continued to fire the flashgun while Sophia took multiple candid's, probably some that were blurry and unusable. If Sophia was being honest, she was trying her hardest not to laugh in Kenny's face.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you three. What's going on?"  
"Actually, I think we've _got_ what we came for. Excuse us." John spoke.  
"What?"  
"Sherlock," he turned to Sophia, "Soph."  
"Hm?"  
"We've got deadlines."

Sophia was the one that grabbed the duffle bag from the table, stuffing the camera inside as she bit down her grin.

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny shouted after the three.

The minute the three rushed out of the house, Sophia erupted into giggles, holding her stomach to support herself. She didn't notice it, but Sherlock was smiling at her, watching the way she laughed so freely.

"Yes!" John exclaimed excitedly, "Ooh, yes!"  
"You think it was the cat? It wasn't the cat." Sherlock smiled.  
"What? No, yes. Yea, it _is_. It _must_ be," John countered, "it's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."  
"Lovely idea." Sherlock's smile never left.  
"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet - bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have-..."  
"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm," Sherlock interrupted, "but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

John chuckled, shaking his head.

"He murdered his sister for her money."  
"Did he?"  
"Didn't he?" John raised his eyebrow, looking up at Sherlock.  
"No. It was revenge."  
"Revenge?" Sophia piped up, "Who wanted revenge? Wouldn't it make sense for Kenny to want his sister killed?"  
"Raoul, the houseboy," Sherlock explained, "Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out; a virtual bullying campaign: you're right," he nodded to Sophia, "finally, he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so..."  
"No, wait, wait," he stopped Sherlock, holding his arm out, "wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?"  
"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of it's life. _You_ and Sophia smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it," Sherlock looked towards the main road, "Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here."

He offered his hand for Sophia to take, to which she did happily as they left John following behind. Sherlock walked with a confidence that, if it were any other case, would make Sophia smile so wide her cheeks would hurt. But the pit in her stomach was still there, still growing. In the back of her mind, she felt something coming, and all she was doing was waiting.

* * *

There was only an hour left; night had fallen as the trio walked into New Scotland Yard. Sherlock wielded a folder, making his way over to Lestrade.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," Sherlock said confidently, "Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince - it was botulinum toxin," he placed the folder on the desk, leaning closer to Lestrade, "we've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."  
"So how'd he do it?"  
"Botox injections." Sophia said from behind Sherlock.  
"Botox?" Lestrade repeated.  
"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office have me complete records of Raoul's internet purchases," he pointed at the folder, "he's been bulk ordering Botox for months," at his side, John continued to stare at his friend, his expression only twisting in anger, "bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."  
"You sure about this?"  
"I'm sure."  
"Alright, my office." Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock was about to join the detective inspector inside, but John stopped him, holding his arm out once again.

"Hey, Sherlock. How long?"  
"What?"  
"How long have you known?" Sophia clarified, understanding why John was becoming upset.  
"Well, this one was quite simple, actually," Sherlock spit-fired, "and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake."  
"No, Sherlock," Sophia took his forearm in her hand, "the hostage, the _old woman_ ; she's been there all this time."  
"I _knew_ I could save her," his voice became low as he leaned closer to her, their eyes leveled, "I also knew that the bomber had given us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you _see_? We're one up on him!"

He turned on his heel, sauntering over to Lestrade's office. Sophia sighed, her arm still frozen midair. She turned to John, exhaling heavily as her head fell.

"D'you ever get the feeling that something's not exactly right?"  
"Every damn day." John replied, leading the way to the office. 

Sophia watched John enter the office, and the pit in her stomach doubled. Something was off, she knew it. With a deep inhale, she joined the men inside, watching as Sherlock typed away on his laptop. The message read:

**Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.**

Only a moment passed before the phone began to ring. Sherlock slowly raised the phone to his ear, the room falling silent.

"Hello?"  
" _Help_ me." the old woman whimpered.  
"Tell us where you are. Address."  
"He was so...his voice..." the woman drawled out.  
"No, no, no, no," Sherlock tried to stop her urgently, "tell me nothing about him. _Nothing_."  
"He sounded so...soft."

A single shot. Dead line.

"Hello?"

But there was no response. Sophia watched as Sherlock stiffened visibly, and it only made her stomach churn.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade pressed.  
"What's happened?"

Sherlock lowered the phone to the desk, his expression answer enough. Sophia's lips parted, and her hands began to shake. She was right. The feeling in her stomach was right, and now, the old woman was dead. Tears sprung to her eyes as she swiftly turned on her heel, retreating from the small office. 

"Sophia? Where're you going?" John called after her.  
"I," she gasped as if someone was choking her, "I need air."

She ignored John's calls for her, trying to move as fast as her legs would carry her. She pushed through the doors, finding herself in an empty corridor, far enough away from the offices. She paced back and forth, her hand covering her mouth in an attempt to muffle her sobs, but the attempt was in vain. Her back pressed against the wall, and her legs gave out from underneath her. She slid down to the floor, shielding her head with her hands as she continued to cry. The old woman had died on her watch, she had died alone somewhere in London because they hadn't gotten to her. What was the point? Was there any real use to staying around, to continue playing this game created by a man named Moriarty? Sophia didn't know the answer, and she didn't know if she _wanted_ to know the answer. 

"Are you alright?"

Sophia looked up almost immediately, her eyes meeting the crystal ones. Sherlock's face twisted itself in concern, eyes scanning her face for anything that could help him. Without thinking, Sophia wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her nose deep in his shoulder. For a moment, Sherlock hesitated to reciprocate, due to his limited experience in physical affection. But as Sophia clung to him, sobbing into his jacket, he slowly wrapped his own arms around her. She didn't need to tell him what she was feeling, he could read it easily enough in her eyes. So, the consulting detective stayed silent as he held onto the crying girl who trusted him so deeply. 

"Come on," he whispered in her ear, "John's got a cab waiting."

Sophia nodded once, allowing Sherlock to help her to her feet. With her arms tightly wrapped around his bicep, she wordlessly followed in his footsteps towards the cab; ignoring the way John watched her every movement. 

**Author's Note:**

> * I do not own Sherlock, only my own characters. All credit to BBC. *


End file.
